


A Most Dangerous Prey

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cat/Human Hybrids, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Person POV John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Original Character Death(s), polymorphic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has always had something of the feline about him, traits which have served him well as a Consulting Detective in London. However, John Watson is about to find out just how deep the similarities lie when a string of suspicious murders plague New Scotland Yard and Sherlock is called in to render assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Good Turn...

**Author's Note:**

> * Description of the belstaff coat courtesy of Sherlockology.com (edited). Please note that I am not a native of the UK. Any knowledge of places, etc, in London are courtesy of Google and "The London Pass" Tourist and Transit Maps. Besides, it's an AU.

There had always been something of the feline about Sherlock Holmes. Not that I had ever noticed anything overt, like playing with string or getting high on catnip. No, it was in the little things that one could see it--the quick, quiet steps; the way in which his eyes darted around a room, finding any little detail or movement and snatching it up; how he could curl those impossibly long limbs of his into the tiniest of spaces; the fascinating yet unsettling eyes which could change color on a whim. Yes, Sherlock certainly did possess cat-like qualities which served him well in detective work, and, yet, he has always been so very human, even though he would himself frown upon the term.

No, there was never anything to cue me in until that case last October, when we were called out by Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard on a dank, drizzly night. Sherlock always hated the rain. Never one to carry an umbrella or, indeed, any unnecessary paraphernalia in his hands, he sat, damp and in a foul mood, in the back of an NSY police car next to me, trying hard not to sneeze and failing miserably.

“God, I hate having to leave Baker Street on a night like this,” he groused, snuffling and rubbing his nose with a knuckle. The rain brings out all kinds of...” he wrinkled his nose in distaste, “ _odors_ , most of them decidedly unpleasant to the sensitive nose.”

 I just raised an eyebrow at his little complaints most of the time, but this time I felt honor-bound to point something out to him. “But, Sherlock,” I began, “your belstaff is made of wool, which, as you know, can stink to high heaven when wet…”

 His head swung toward me and I was favored with one of the most feral looks I have ever had the misfortune to see. “Leave. My. Coat. OUT OF THIS,” he snarled, biting off each word in annoyance. He settled back into his seat and directed his gaze forward, his expression dark. “My Belstaff is made from pure Irish wool tweed with natural qualities of comfort and breathability*. It does not ‘stink’, as you say, in any way, shape, or form.”

 I can’t honestly tell you why, but I often can’t resist needling Sherlock about certain things. His love for his coat is one of them. I truly believe that he prefers that coat’s company to mine sometimes. He always forgives me for nettling him later, but it does tend to spice up otherwise dull or unpleasant cases.

 The car skidded slightly as it came to a halt by a small road in Bayswater, not too far from Hyde Park. We could have walked it if the weather had been nicer but Lestrade knew how stroppy Sherlock could be about coming out when it rained. By the time we arrived, the police had already cordoned off the area and a forensics team was on the grounds searching for evidence and photographing the site. We peeled ourselves out of the back seat of the BMW and Sherlock immediately strode over to where Lestrade stood conversing with Sergeant Donovan and a young officer unfamiliar to me.

 “Lestrade,” Sherlock nodded curtly, pulling his coat collar up against the chill of the evening’s rain. At least, that’s what he _claims_ he’s doing; Sherlock actually loves to be dramatic and he knows this action puts everyone on notice that the Consulting Detective has arrived. “Donovan. Aaand whoever _you_ are.”

Sally Donovan took a deliberate sip of her coffee as her eyes slid sideways toward Lestrade, who waved the new officer away. “Rookie. He’s nowhere ready for you, Sherlock,” Lestrade observed as I walked up. “Ah, the good doctor. I was wondering where you were.”

 “My legs aren’t quite as long as my associate’s, I’m afraid,” I joked, knowing it was all too true and how I’ve suffered from that inconvenience ever since Sherlock and I started investigating cases together. “So, did I miss anything?”

 “Nothing of importance,” Sherlock noted dryly. “Lestrade just sent off a new police officer so I wouldn’t scare him into early retirement. Not that he isn’t already second-guessing his chosen field of endeavor…”

 Lestrade held up his hand to cut off the inevitable observational analysis. “Not now, Sherlock. Later on you can give me your input on the career potential of our rookie but right now I have an… _interesting_ case for you.” He made the word sound almost profane. “An interesting case” nearly always guarantees that NSY will have to endure Sherlock’s haughty presence for the duration. “This way,” he said, gesturing for us to follow.

 As we approached the crime scene tape, Sherlock, as always, lifted it high into the air to allow himself to pass under it, and me as well. I have never been able to determine if this is a courtesy on his part toward me or if he just hesitates one second too long, allowing me to scoot under it. Either way, I always thank him and receive either a non-committal grunt or no response at all. That’s Sherlock—“Mr. Eloquence.” Of course, he promptly dropped it on Sgt. Donovan, who swore under her breath and muttered, “Dick.” His face partially in shadow, I could still see Sherlock smirk. There’s been a real “disdain/hate” relationship going on between them ever since she took to calling him “Freak” years ago. She and her fellow officers _hated_ that Sherlock could run rings around them when it came to crime scene analysis.

 “Over here,” Lestrade called, leading us to a crumpled form on the ground. On first impression, it looked like a heap of old clothes that somebody had thrown on wet ground, but stronger lights were being set up that would enable us to make out more detail. In the light of these new “pseudo-daylight lamps”, the sight that met our eyes was ghastly. Usually, for Sherlock and I to be called in, the body or crime scene has to possess some peculiar quality which makes it too perplexing for the police to figure out, but this one looked like something out of a bad Hammer Film. The body had seemingly-random cut-and-slice marks all over it; some of the cuts looked like the body had been partially skinned while others looked like they were meant to dismember but were incomplete. The job was fast and bloody but the cuts were straight and, I noticed as I bent to examine the body, showed a strange sort of expertise.

 “Odd thing, that,” I said, pointing to some of the cuts. “Most of these have no obvious purpose. Cutting for the sake of… _what_? Unlikely anyone is going to _eat_ the removed flesh. It almost looks ritualistic rather than surgical… Sherlock?”

 A tall shadow fell across my light as my associate bent over the corpse. His eyes narrowed in concentration, taking in every visible detail. “Unlikely, John,” he murmured. He pulled the trailing hem of his coat out of the way as he crouched down to get a closer look. “Look here—It looks like there are no parts actually _missing_ , just removed and scattered around. It makes no sense. Why go through all the trouble of making these cuts and not taking away anything but the smallest tidbits?” He called over his shoulder, “Lestrade?”

 Lestrade walked over, carefully avoiding the rivulets of blood that coursed downhill from the body. “What is it, Sherlock? Find anything of interest?” he asked as he bent over Sherlock’s shoulder.

 Sherlock pointed to a number of sliced areas on the body where the clothing had been moved aside. “Have you found any pieces of the body in the vicinity? Maybe in the trash or sewer?”

 “Nope. Not yet. We’re still combing through everything in the alley and interviewing witnesses. I thought you’d want to get on this immediately because of… _this_ ,” Lestrade said as he dramatically removed a piece of sheeting that covered the corpse’s head.

 Sherlock looked down at the victim’s head and hissed. I mean, _literally_ hissed, like a big, angry cat. Where the head should have been was a big pulpy mass, with no obvious bone structure left at all. It had been all but obliterated, and partially scalped to boot. Sherlock leaned in, his eyes almost round in horror at the sight. That, alone, was enough to clue me in that something was definitely not right. I have _never_ seen Sherlock react like that in all the time we’ve been together. The smell of blood was overwhelming and I honestly thought Sherlock was going to faint, his face having turned whiter than the sheet that had been covering this mess.

 “Sherlock, are you all right?” I asked him solicitously, resting my hand on his forearm. He didn’t respond, just stared at the “head”, nose wrinkled in disgust. He stood up in one fluid move and turned to Lestrade.

 “There’s nothing I can do at this very moment,” he spoke sharply as he backed away from the body, obviously in a hurry to leave. I stood up as well and watched Sherlock closely. He threw an indecipherable look my way before continuing. “Let me know when the body has been taken to St. Barts and Molly has had a chance to examine it. I need to know if all the pieces are there. Also, I want all forensic reports as soon as they are finished, and they need to be finished by _yesterday_ , am I clear?” Lestrade nodded and opened his mouth to speak. “John, let’s go. Back to Baker Street. Come on.” With that, he strode away, almost breaking into a run as he neared the car.

 Lestrade turned to me for an explanation. “What the bloody hell was that all about? I mean, he hardly _looked_ at the body!” he griped. “Is he…you know…” He made a gesture of shooting up drugs into his arm.

 I shook my head. “No, nothing like that. I’ve been keeping a close eye on him. He’s…fine. Or, at least, as fine as Sherlock ever gets.” Lestrade didn’t look convinced. “Anyway, I need to catch up with him and find out what’s the matter. I’ll keep in touch.” I ran after my partner as fast as I could, dodging crime scene technicians and police along the way.

 As soon as I reached the car, I could tell something was majorly wrong with Sherlock. He sat…no, actually, he almost _cowered_ in the back seat of the squad car. His color was still off and he sat with his arms wrapped around himself. The look he gave me had just a touch of panic in it. “John. Inside. Now. Let’s go,” he ordered in clipped tones. I slipped into the seat next to him, shut the door, and rapped on the plastic partition. “221B Baker Street, please, and hurry. I believe my friend is ill.”

 The driver nodded wordlessly and pulled away from the scene. I turned to regard my friend. He didn’t return my gaze. He just sat there, curled in on himself, snuffling uncomfortably. I brushed the rain-soaked hair away from his face gently. “Sherlock, are you all right?” I asked in a soft voice. He shook his head, tiny side-to-side movements that barely conveyed the sentiment. When I touched his cheek he felt cold, and he was trembling. “I’ll get you something to fortify you when we get home,” I promised. He stared straight ahead, a simple nod the only answer he could muster.

 >>>***<<<

Sherlock never actually made it to his chair. He threw off his coat and dropped it on the floor by the living room door before staggering to the couch, where he curled up into an impossibly small ball.

 I must admit, I was astounded. I had never seen Sherlock look so… _small_ , so fragile. It made my heart hurt. I grabbed the blanket off the back of my chair and threw it over his shuddering form, tucking it in around him. Then I picked up the Union Jack pillow and nestled it under his head, ruffling his hair fondly as I did so. I heard a tiny, muffled, “John,” as I turned away to pick up his coat and hang it on the rack behind the door. I hung up my jacket right after, then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. Searching around the cabinets, I found a bottle of Jamison’s. _A good fortifier, indeed_ , I thought. Sherlock looked like he needed one. Though normally not a great drinker, even the great “Consulting Detective” sometimes needed a little pick-me-up.

 I went over to the couch to check on my charge while I waited on the kettle. He had stopped shaking but his head was buried under the blanket. “You’re going to suffocate under there,” I warned him in a mock-stern voice. “Come on out, Sherlock.”

 “NO!” he yelled, his normally-powerful voice muffled by the woolen coverlet. “Go away, John! Leave me alone!” He repositioned himself and pulled the blanket about himself even tighter.

 I’ve seen Sherlock in all kinds of moods, and this one was nothing new. He could go from one extreme to another within seconds without explanation. “Mercurial” is a good word for it. There’s never an apology and never an explanation. You just had to go with it and, eventually, he would smooth out and start to resemble a normal human being again. If you’re lucky.

 The kettle whistled. I bustled over and began preparing two mugs of tea, one with sugar. For a man with such a sour disposition, Sherlock sure loved his sugar. Maybe that was it—Sherlock was trying to reach chemical equilibrium by diluting the natural lemon juice he called blood with large quantities of sugar. Well, unfortunately, it didn’t always work, but I sure hoped it would this time. Right now he was evolving into a right pain in the ass and I was finding that I wanted no part of it. I laced his mug with a bit o’ the James for, you know, _therapeutic_ reasons. Maybe it would knock him out, if I was very, _very_ lucky.

 I set my own mug down at my chair and brought Sherlock’s over to him, setting it down on the coffee table. “Sherlock, tea,” I said, as I shook his shoulder (at least, I _think_ it was his shoulder—he’s so damned boney it’s sometimes hard to tell what is what) and he just grumbled, without moving. I shook him again, more vigorously this time. “Sherlock, TEA! It’ll get cold!” I yelled at him, never expecting the response I got.

 The plaid woolen blanket flew into the air in a flurry of limbs. Sherlock exploded off the couch and onto his feet in front of me, snarling, his face contorted and almost unrecognizable. He stood in a sort of half-crouch with his back curved. His eyes were bright gold with a vertical slit. He grabbed the front of my jumper and I could feel his nails—hell, his _claws_ —scrape against my skin as he pushed his face into mine.

 “I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!” he roared, long white fangs bared with each word. His voice was different; _everything_ was different. This wasn’t the Sherlock Holmes I knew. I’m not sure _anyone_ knew _this_ particular incarnation. It was terrifying.

 


	2. ...Deserves Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has seen his friend Sherlock Holmes in many different moods and situations, but how will he deal with investigating a murder with the great Cat-sulting Detective?

I’ve made an interesting discovery. I have been both a soldier in Afghanistan and an assistant to the most brilliant detective in the know universe. He also happens to be my dearest friend, one who has told me to my face that he considers me to be one of the bravest men he has ever known. So, here’s the sad truth: being in battle beside other men, holding a loaded gun, and being shot at is one thing; standing toe-to-toe, unarmed, facing a raging, snarling beast that used to be your best friend requires quite a different set of nerves altogether. I steadied my voice as best I could before saying, “Sherlock, your tea is getting c-cold,” my nerves finally deserting me at the end. To be honest, I could feel my knees getting a little spongy. 

We stood there, a frozen tableau, for…I couldn’t even say how long. It seemed like ages but it was probably only about a minute, maybe even less. I stared into his eyes, forcing myself to slow my breathing, to control the panic that was clawing its way out of my gut. _Fear_ , I thought _, fear will trigger him, or anger. Either one, probably. Maintain control. Control. Houston, we have a problem…_

Even as the fear started to give way to the facetious, I realized that, whatever this _thing_ was, as _intimidating_ as it was, it wasn’t attacking. Rather, it held me within inches of its face, making curious snuffling sounds, just like Sherlock had in the car. I mean, I _knew_ it was Sherlock—who else could it be?—but how…? Why…? 

I must have been half-crazed, fear dulled by shock, because I reached up--past those extended claws entangled in my jumper; past those bared fangs; past those burning, feral eyes--and casually scritched one of the aggressively-flattened ears on top of his head. The snarling ground to a halt with an confused uptick at the end. The savage face in front of mine softened a bit and the eyes widened in surprise. He released my jumper and took one step back—far enough to no longer be an immediate threat, but still close enough for me to continue scritching that ear. His eyes drifted closed, in what I truly do believe was _pleasure,_ and a comforting, rumbling sound emanated from his throat. He even tilted his head a little so I could reach farther back. 

“Sherlock,” I whispered, not wanting to disturb this moment of calm by startling him again. I continued my ministrations until the eyes slowly opened and focused on my face. A look of horror crept over his transformed face. He suddenly panic-leapt for the bedroom door, covering the intervening space in about two to three bounds. The door slammed shut and a howl went up from the other side. It wasn’t a howl of anger, or fear, or sorrow; it was a sound of pure, unbridled dismay. 

I staggered over to my chair and crash-landed on my arse into it. My knees, and my nerves, had finally given out. I just sat there, staring at Sherlock’s empty black-and-silver chair. _My God._ _That had been Sherlock_. The reality of it rocked me and I reached for my tea, wishing I had dosed _it_ with Jamison’s, too. As I sipped it I couldn’t help but wonder how much else I didn’t know about Sherlock Holmes. Even I had to admit, this was a pretty big omission in my database. Not knowing your roommate is a maniacal half-beast on his bad days makes doing everyday, normal, mundane things a bit more… _exciting_ , to say the least. Problematic, even. _I wonder if I’ll ever unpucker that sphincter again,_ I thought. I had been _that_ _scared_. 

As I sat there, I heard some commotion from the bedroom; it sounded like someone was doing some major redecorating, and not in a good way. Someone was acting out and I knew exactly who it was. Then it hit me—as scared as I was, Sherlock must be in an absolute state. The man I knew was so terribly private, resistant to giving away even a morsel of information about himself without having it pried out of him with a can opener and Crisco. This was a man who prided himself on his self-control, his rationality, his dignity. Suddenly, out of the blue, he transforms into…God, what _was_ that? _Do I really want to know?_ I asked myself, already knowing the answer. _Yes. Yes, I do, God help me. He’s my friend. I_ have _to know._

And so it was that, quietly and carefully, I padded up to Sherlock’s door in my stocking feet with a mug of doctored tea in one hand and my heart in my throat. I rapped on the door with my knuckles, knowing it wasn’t locked. That lock hadn’t worked in years. I’d never had reason to think about it before. Now, that door was all that stood between me and…”Sherlock, I brought you your tea. I think…we should talk.” 

Silence

“It’s not like you can hide it any more, and I don’t want you to feel that you have to,” I said, trying to sound far more reasonable and understanding than I felt. “You’re my friend. I want to help. I want to understand.”

Still no response. I sighed.

“Sherlock, please…Don’t make me come in after you.” I started to reach for the door knob. 

The door opened, slowly. Behind it stood a very sheepish-looking Sherlock. He couldn’t even meet my gaze as he reached out and took the mug of lukewarm tea from my hand. The mug shook ever-so-slightly as he raised it to his lips and drank. He shuddered. “Jamison’s,” he said. “Good choice.” He took another, even longer sip before raising his eyes to meet mine. I saw such sorrow and remorse there, emotions I’d never seen in those eyes before. Ever. 

“John,” he started to say, before taking a deep breath and another deep sip. “I-I owe you an apology. In fact, I owe you _the_ _mother_ of all apologies. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I did to you.” 

I reached out and pushed the door all the way open. His room, never the neatest at the best of time, was fairly well trashed. Egyptian cotton sheets were pulled off the bed and ripped, drawers hung halfway out of their dressers, drapes were shredded—just a right royal mess. I wordlessly took my friend’s elbow and gently led him through the kitchen, into the living room, and to his chair. He seemed dazed, lost in his own thoughts, as he sat down, elbows on knees. I sat down opposite him, but not before going into the kitchen to throw a little restorative into my _own_ mug of tea. 

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” I encouraged him in my softest Dr. Watson voice. He just sat there, eyes downcast, long slender fingers playing with his half-full mug. I leaned in and rested my hand on his arm. He was shaking. “Look, I’m not mad, OK? I’m not. If anything, I’m a bit confused.” Sherlock’s eyes rose to meet mine and one eyebrow quirked upward. “Ok, maybe I’m a _little_ mad, but only because you didn’t _tell_ me about this before! I mean, we’re partners, right? No secrets? Isn’t that what we agreed on?” Sherlock’s eyes dropped down again and he nodded mutely. “OK, then tell me— _what the bloody hell was that?_ ” I my voice rose almost to a shriek as I gestured toward the site of our recent encounter. I guess I was more rattled than I thought. 

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to collect himself. His eyes never left his mug. “What you saw…you should never have seen. Ever. I’m so sorry, John. My control slipped. I could feel it starting at the crime scene. The sight, the smells—God, the _smell_!” He shook his head violently, as if to clear it. “It was fear and blood and...other odors combined. It made me want to scream and run and hide. Completely atavistic behavior, anathema to all my vaunted reasoning skills. I should have been able to control it, but I wasn’t prepared. It just overwhelmed me. Then, when I saw what had been done to the head, I…I just had this gut feeling I knew what we were up against. It sickened me. It _changed_ me into what you saw. I’m not proud of that.” 

I shook his arm, lightly. “What was that, Sherlock? What did you change into?” 

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes. They had returned to their usual blue-green but now I noticed the flecks of gold I had never seen before. The feral gold. “I am a member of a group known as _Homo Felis Sapiens_.” 

“Wait a minute.” I interjected, searching back through my basic Latin. “‘Thinking Human Cat’? I’ve never heard the like.” 

He shrugged. “It’s the closest anyone’s ever come to classifying us. We call ourselves werecats. We are neither human nor feline, but a hybrid of both. We keep ourselves away from the rest of the world, aloof from humanity, as much as possible. In the past, our kind was hunted, sometimes to near-extinction. Some groups survived, like mine. We were able to adapt to life in the modern world. Others…were not so lucky.” 

My head was starting to spin. Werecats? A secret species of shape-shifting beings? Then what he said finally hit me. “Wait. There are others? Like you? You’re not unique, then?” 

Sherlock looked offended. “Of course I’m unique, just like you. We’re as unique as any human,” he snapped. 

I held up my hands in protest. “Not what I meant, Sherlock, and you know it. I’m asking if there are other shape-shifters beside werecats? For example,” I pulled the first thing out of my head, “do were _wolves_ live here, among us?” 

My friend snorted derisively. “Werewolves? In London? Ridiculous! They much prefer the countryside, where they can run free with the pack. They would be far too noticeable in a heavily-urbanized area. We werecats, on the other hand, live in loosely-knit communities throughout the city, often on the fringes of society. We’re far better at blending in than the wolves. Unlike them, we possess a degree of finesse.” He wrinkled his patrician nose in distaste before taking another sip of his now-lukewarm tea. 

I must admit, I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around this new reality. I am, by no means, an unintelligent man, but _this_ smacked of bad science fiction. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would have been searching the flat for a stash of drugs. There hadn’t been any goings-on lately to warrant a “Danger Night”, but what Sherlock had just told me sounded like the ravings of a man in the grip of some high-powered hallucinogens. 

Then I noticed that Sherlock was watching me with a curious yet guarded expression on his face. I cocked my head to one side in inquiry. He placed his mug on the table at his elbow and asked, “John, you seem to be taking this all in stride, so would it bother you overmuch if I…relaxed a bit? I find that I’m a bit more tired than usual from both that “startle change” you saw and the reaction to the crime scene.” 

I was confused. “What do you mean, ‘relax’. You look fairly relaxed now. Would you like to change clothes or…” 

He smiled, a brief tug at the corners of his mouth. “Uh, no. You see, it takes some concentration and an effort of will to maintain this form. This necessitates daily meditation and discipline. Unfortunately, due to fatigue, I can feel my control slipping a bit, so I would like, with your permission, to--how shall I say-- _downshift_ into a more natural form.” 

I wasn’t too keen on this idea, considering what had happened less than a half-hour before. The thought must have shown on my face because Sherlock leaned forward and patted my knee reassuringly. “John, you must know I would never consciously put you in danger. The form I would assume is a safe one. I will still be myself, just…well, a little _less_ myself, physically speaking.” His eyes smiled, and his touch was gentle, so I took a deep, calming breath and nodded. 

As he rose from his chair, the doctor in me stepped forward. “May I watch, or would you find that too… awkward?” I asked, hoping that he would react positively. 

He dropped his eyes while considering my request, then smirked good-naturedly as he looked up again. “I would think you’d had enough of spontaneous polymorphism,” he joked, with forced lightness, “but if that’s what you wish, I have no problem with it.” 

Sherlock took off his high-dollar shoes, kicking them under his chair, and then removed his suit jacket. This he laid carefully over the back of the seat cushion before turning back to face me. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and shuddered briefly. Then, before my astonished eyes, his body began to subtly alter. While most of his body retained its familiar rangy shape, his back took on a greater, more flexible curvature. His hands and feet changed subtly as well, fingers and toes becoming a bit thicker at the ends with the tips of retracted claws visible. His ears, which were mostly covered with his hair anyway, melted into his head, while two large, semi-conical ear shells grew from atop his skull, evenly spaced from center. They were covered with dark brown fur that matched his hair color, but the insides were dusky-pink with brown tufting inside the bases. His eyes changed from their usual blue-green to gold and the pupils elongated vertically, widening in the dim light. The bridge of his nose widened and curved outward gracefully while the nostril area took on the appearance of dusky-rose, cracked leather. 

All this I watched in fascination, but what really astounded me was when, with a small, embarrassed smile and a quiet “excuse me”, he unhitched his belt and unfastened his tailored trousers to release—a tail. It was about a meter long, slender like the man himself, and it was also covered in dark brown fur, like his ears. Sherlock sighed in relief and re-fastened his pants a little lower on his hips. His tail whipped around to the front and, as he sat down again, it settled, gently curled, in his lap. He grinned at what must have been my astonished expression, his long white canines catching the light. “Well, John, what do you think? Was this experience an improvement over the last?” 

I had difficulty finding words to describe how I was feeling at that moment. A minute before, my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, had been sitting across from me in his favorite chair. Now, some new entity had been deposited into that self-same chair--one that _acted_ like my friend, _sounded_ like my friend, but definitely did not _look_ like my friend. I must have been staring like a loon because Sherlock began to laugh at my consternation. “I take it you’re not about to sprint off, screaming to the heavens in fear of me, are you, John?” he chuckled, the tip of his tail undulating--in response to his mood, I supposed. 

He stretched out to his full length in his chair, arms and legs pulled taut in opposite directions. I could see that the articulations of his joints had altered very slightly, though not enough that the uninitiated would notice without having it pointed out to them. His tail also stretched out full, then retracted to a relaxed state dangling next to his left leg. I couldn’t help but notice a little sparkle in his eye as he watched me examining him. 

Finally, I was able to open my mouth and produce coherent words. “My God, Sherlock, that was _amazing_! You can do that at will? Incredible! How have you kept this a secret for so long? How could I have missed it?” I’m afraid I was babbling in astonishment. 

“I was always very aware of the need for extra care whenever we were together, John, especially when I was under profound stress. I usually allowed my body to downshift once you were asleep upstairs. If I heard you having bad dreams, I would, of course, play my violin to soothe you but also to keep you from coming downstairs and discovering my secret.” He favored me with a warm smile and his voice became somehow more…intimate, and apologetic. “I would have told you if you had found out on your own, but my people are sworn to protect the group at all costs. I had to honor that, despite our friendship. I do hope you understand. It was never anything personal against you.” 

I leaned back in my chair and nodded. “Of course, Sherlock. We’ve had our issues with communication before but this is different. You took an oath.” Suddenly, something snapped into place in my mind. “Wait. That case we just came back from, the one that upset you so much—is this, possibly, related to your people?” 

Sherlock grinned, obviously pleased at my deduction. “Exactly, John! You figured that one out on your own! Yes, what could possibly upset me to the point of losing control like that when you know how I normally respond to a crime scene? A threat on a more personal level, perhaps even affecting a larger-than-usual number of people! Bravo!” 

I must admit, I was pleased to receive such an accolade from the great Sherlock Holmes, silly as that may sound. I don’t know why I craved his appreciative words, but I did. It made me want to do more, to do better, to bask in the glow of my dear friend’s approval. “So, Sherlock, tell me—what did our latest victim have in common with your community?” 

His face assumed a solemn, almost sad, expression. “The victim tonight—I suspect it of being one of my agents. Remember I said that many of my people live on the fringes of society? Many of them are part of the homeless network, my Baker Street Irregulars. They are free to wander where they will, make their way as they wish, without having to conform to human standards of behavior and success.” He leaned forward in his chair, gold-rimmed eyes intent upon mine. “One of the odors at the crime scene was the scent of a werecat. It was strong and localized around the body, so I knew it was the victim’s scent and not the perpetrator’s. As we looked at the body, I noticed that, while the victim had hands that looked much like mine,” he held up his hands, fingertips pointed upward, before allowing ten sharp, curved claws to spring from their nailbeds, “there was no sign of a tail, either on the body or around it. Also, the skull was crushed so badly that it would be difficult for anyone to notice the enlarged openings of our ears, while the scalping covered up the loss of the auricle, the ear cups, of a frightened, downshifted werecat.” Sherlock’s own ears twitched and shifted nervously. He reached up and demonstrated where the skull was open in the center of the cup. 

“But why would someone go to all that trouble, to crush the skull and make those cuts on the body?” I asked. “Staying at the scene would increase the perpetrator’s chances of being caught.” Then I realized. “Of course! When I examined the body, I noticed that there was an unusual expertise in the cuts but that they didn’t appear to be surgical in nature.” 

“Yes!” Sherlock crowed. “Very good, John! There was skill demonstrated in the butchering of the body! So, what does that tell you? Not a surgeon, yet someone who cuts apart bodies on a regular basis.” 

I leaned forward in excitement. “A butcher? No, someone who would know how to cut up fresh prey on the fly.” Sherlock’s eyes bore into mine, egging my on. I sat up straight and snapped my fingers. “A hunter!” 

“Yes!” Sherlock clapped his hands, obviously pleased with my conclusions. “Exactly! Now you can see why I was so affected, can’t you?” 

The implications hit me hard. Someone was out there, murdering people, butchering their bodies. For what? Not for meat, surely. “So you think someone is hunting down people for sport?” I asked, horrified. 

Sherlock steepled his fingertips under his chin as he usually did while thinking. “Not just people, John,” he specified. “ _My_ people. _Were_ -people. Someone took the ears and tail off the body as, what—trophies, perhaps?” 

“My God,” I said. “That’s disgusting! They’re intelligent beings! How could someone…?” 

“That’s what I mean to find out, John, but first I need to talk to Molly and have another look at the body and the forensics reports.” He looked at me with a question in those cat-like eyes. “Would you be interested in…” 

I didn’t even let him finish. “Of course, Sherlock! How could you think otherwise? A crime is a crime, regardless of whether it’s one of your people or mine. When do we start?” 

He smiled in approval. “Tomorrow would be best, I think. Give Molly time to do her work and get reports in. Plus, we can get a good meal in us and a restful night’s sleep before heading out. I have a feeling that, once we get started, things are going to move swiftly from there.”


	3. The Stuff of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find out the nightmares are just beginning when DI Lestrade discovers Sherlock's secret and let's them in on a bigger one.

Here is something I’ve come to accept; some nights are better than others. That night was just not one of the better ones. 

After a meal of Chinese take-away, Sherlock and I had indulged in an after-dinner glass of wine before I retired to bed. Sherlock, being Sherlock, elected to remain awake a while longer to play the violin and ponder the case on his own. As I climbed the stairs to my own room, I could hear the strains of the “Merry Widow Waltz”, one of my favorites. I smiled at his choice of music. I knew what Sherlock was up to; I’ve always known. Even now, on the nights when I suffer from particularly bad nightmares, he plays certain songs which he knows will calm me and lull me back to sleep. He thinks he’s clever. I let him think so. 

That night, though, was particularly rough. In my dreams, I could still hear the bombs going off close by, feel the dirt kicked up by the explosion. The voices were there, too; high-pitched shrieks of men with arms or legs blown off, perhaps even both; the deeper moans of the gutted or brain-injured; and the hysterical weeping and wailing of those whose will and purpose have just snapped, leaving them cowering in whatever meager shelter they could find. It was my job to ferret them out, to bind their wounds, and to return them to base for treatment, if possible. Some were beyond any ministrations—youngsters missing half their heads, partially-liquified guts pouring out of gaping abdominal wounds, unidentifiable burnt lumps of flesh that used to be someone’s son or daughter, and torn bodies missing ragged pieces too large for survival to even be a question. 

All this, plus the personal cost of being a doctor in a land where death could be planted in the ground or come screaming through the air before you could even react properly. I saw so many of my associates fall prey to the enemy as they were trying to pull the wounded and traumatized to safety. The red cross of the medical corps meant nothing in such a place. I vividly remembered trying to load a young soldier with a bleeding leg wound onto a stretcher when I was struck in the left shoulder by something that spun me around and knocked me to the ground beside my charge. My arm went numb, hanging limp at my side. Blood spurted from the wound where a bullet had gone straight through from front to back, nicking the brachial artery. If my commanding officer, Major James Sholto, hadn’t seen it happen and come to my aid, I probably would have bled out right there. He packed the wound with some spare gauze from my kit and carried me to safety, after first making sure that my charge was properly attended to. I owed him my life. To this day, I consider that man my friend. At one time, he might have been something more, but that time was long past, well before I first met Sherlock. 

There were times when I awoke, drenched in sweat and breathing like I had just run a marathon, and heard the soothing chords of Sherlock’s violin. I would usually focus on the music until sleep overtook me again, but sometimes the relief would be short-lived. I don’t know why the dreams were so bad that night, unless it was because of the particularly gory crime scene we had witnessed only hours before. Seeing the way the victim’s head had been systematically destroyed reminded me of some of the casualties I’d seen in Afghanistan. The damage to the body looked like some of the desecrations the enemy had perpetrated on our fallen soldiers before we found them and returned them to their families, usually for closed casket services. I could almost smell the tang of the blood and the stench of explosive residue. At times, I cried out a warning; sometimes I screamed in pain or despair or panic. Yet, each time I awoke, it was to the sound of Bach or Mozart played sweetly on a stringed instrument by my dear friend, who sacrificed his sleep to ensure mine. 

I hated going back into the arms of Morpheus that night, yet I knew I needed to have my wits about me if I was to be of any use to Sherlock and NSY the next day. I turned over and willed myself back into that hellish state of horror-filled dreams. At some point, early in the morning, I vaguely remembered feeling a presence nearby— warm, comforting, and protective. The violin music was gone, replaced by a deep thrumming sound even more soothing than the waltzes had been. It filled the air around my head, driving out the sounds of carnage and death. I gravitated to that sound, snuggling into it like a child into its mother’s lap. I finally found relief, some surcease from the war, if only for a few hours. 

Morning light crept slowly into my bedroom, waking me gradually from my fitful sleep. The first thing I noticed—and it was bloody hard to miss—was that I was not alone in my bed. Sleeping next to me, on the side closest to the door, was a tall, long-limbed werecat, his body wrapped halfway around mine, my face tucked against his chest. One long-fingered hand delicately supported my neck and head, while the other arm wrapped around my back in a loose caress. But the thing that I _really_ noticed was the sound. I turned my head slightly to isolate its position, finally determining that it was emanating from Sherlock’s throat and chest. _Purring_ , I realized. Sherlock was purring, a deep, throaty sound that could lull one to sleep effortlessly. Indeed, I found myself dozing off a couple of times before the alarm clock sounded. 

The alarm clock was a mistake. While it was good for me, it was very bad for Sherlock. I don’t think I have ever seen a human being jump _that high_ and _that far_ in my life. He was halfway across the room and almost out the door, eyes wild and dark, before leaning against the door to collect himself. He finally tip-toed back to bed, still breathing in frightened gasps, and crawled back in beside me. He looked down at me with large, inquiring eyes as he stroked my hair affectionately. 

“Did you finally sleep, John?” he asked solicitously. “I could hear you during the night. The dreams must have been especially bad for you. I hope…” he gnawed on his lower lip, a habit in which he indulged when he was nervous, “what happened last night didn’t cause the dreams to worsen. I would never forgive myself if I were to be the cause of your discomfort.” His hand continued stroking my hair absently as he spoke. 

I dragged my unwilling body up to a sitting position and drew my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. I could see that Sherlock hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, either. He’d probably been up half the night trying to get me to sleep, finally abandoning the violin in favor of a more personal touch. He had dark circles under his eyes and his eyelids were at half-mast. 

“I suggest,” I began, resting my hand on his arm, “that we sleep in today—give Molly a bit more time with the body before we get there.” I could that see Sherlock was about to protest, so I continued quickly, “If Lestrade needs us, he can call us. So can Molly. Neither one of us is in fit shape to be doing any heavy-duty investigating at this point. Rest now, sleuth later, agreed?” I peered at him from under my brows, trying to assert my will upon him, as if I actually could. He laughed weakly at my efforts to sway his decision.

 “All right, John. I bow to your logic. We’ll get some rest, and then go and pester Molly.” He stopped and gave me a quizzical look. “John, since I’m up here already, and you seem to sleep better with me around, would you mind…?” 

I scooted over to make room for my new bedmate. He happily resumed his previous position, curled up around my head, and began purring again. That deep, delicious vibrato soon had me in its throes as I slipped into a deep, restful sleep, free from the terrors of the night before. 

>>>***<<<

I stumbled downstairs in the late hours of the morning, longing for a nice strong cup of tea to jog loose the cobwebs in my brain. Sleeping in had been an excellent idea. I was feeling so much better than I had been earlier, and Sherlock’s therapeutic purring had done wonders for my frayed nerves. I had left him upstairs, dead to the world. Yesterday’s events must have taken as much out of him as last night’s dreams took out of me. 

As I padded around the kitchen in my bare feet, I heard the doorbell ring, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s door opening and closing. Assuming she would handle any visitors or deliveries I turned my attentions to filling and setting the kettle on the stove before heading into the loo. I vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson talking to someone but couldn’t quite catch the name or recognize the voice, both of which were muffled by the bathroom door and the sounds associated with my usual morning rituals. 

The kettle starting singing its morning song, only to be cut off by someone removing it from the burner. I assumed it was either Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson and so didn’t think much of it. After drying my hands and running a comb through my ratty-looking hair, I exited from the loo to find Greg Lestrade standing in the kitchen pouring out three cups of tea into mismatched mugs. “’Morning,” he nodded good-naturedly. “How do you take yours?” 

“Black, and Sherlock takes two sugars, thanks,” I mumbled, still groggy and a bit muddle-headed. I took the mug Greg handed to me gratefully and sat down at the table for the first restorative sips of the day. Greg took his mug in hand and paced into the living room wordlessly, also sipping his tea. 

I heard a light tread on the stairs but figured Mrs. Hudson was bringing something up from her kitchen, as she frequently did on days we slept in. A moment later, Sherlock stumbled into the room, wearing his rumpled pyjamas and dressing gown. “John, I heard the kettle. Do you have the tea…” 

“ _Jesus H. Christ on a stick_!” Lestrade yelled as he caught sight of the World’s Greatest Consulting Detective in his default form. Sherlock had obviously not heard Lestrade come in and had come downstairs still bearing two conical ears and a tail. It was to Lestrade’s credit that he didn’t drop his mug but I think he came pretty damned close. “I should have known! Damn it to hell, I should have figured it out long ago! This explains so much!” He punched the air in frustration, then pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. “You bastard! Why didn’t you tell me?” he griped, striding across the room to thrust his face into a startled Sherlock’s. I gave props to Sherlock for not jumping up to the ceiling and rocketing for his room at the start of Lestrade’s outburst. He just looked stunned, at a loss for words. That alone had been worth seeing. 

I took advantage of a lull in the tirade to interject, “Uh, Greg, you don’t seem very surprised. Why don’t you seem surprised? It’s not every day you get to see a…” I didn’t get to finish. 

“A werecat? In the flesh? Not that often; at least, not a living one. They’re sneaky little buggers, _just like_ _this_ _one_!” he yelled, moving his pointing finger down to jab Sherlock in the chest. Sherlock stiffened and I could see his claws extend reflexively. I reached over and tapped him on the arm to distract him, then offered him the mug with the sugar in it. He accepted it with retracted claws and took a step back from the irate DI. 

“So, Lestrade. You’re…familiar with werecats? How?” I asked, trying to defuse the situation by distracting his attentions away from Sherlock. Frankly, I also wanted more information. I had received precious little the night before and Lestrade seemed to have some first-hand knowledge that might prove useful. 

Lestrade shook his head in disgust and took a long draw on his tea before speaking. “We occasionally find dead werefolk all over London. Usually they’re werecats but we do sometimes find the odd werewolf or some other species. For the most part, their own people take care of the bodies, hiding them away or burying them someplace out-of-the-way. We find the strays, the ones who have no relatives or friends to look after them or dispose of the bodies. We’ve been aware of their presence for quite some time but they used to be considered a myth until recently. Some smart guy sent some tissue samples for DNA testing and the lab determined that they were a whole ‘nother species, not some sort of mutation or birth defect as we had previously suspected.” He glared anew at Sherlock. “And you knew all about them, Sherlock. We could have done with some of your specialized knowledge several times in my career alone!” 

Sherlock said nothing, just sipped his tea, ears perked up at attention. I noticed they hadn’t flattened when Lestrade was giving him a piece of his mind. Obviously last night’s extended rest had restored Sherlock’s usual self-control and calm. It hadn’t, however, blunted his trademark sarcasm. 

“And what was I supposed to say, Lestrade? ‘Oh, excuse me, Inspector, I thought you should know that your consulting detective is a shape-shifting carnivore who resembles a cat in his resting state. Don’t be alarmed, just get me a bowl of cream and I’ll jump right on the job.’ Please!” he scoffed. “Your people don’t like me now. Just imagine the reaction if I showed up like this! And besides,” he added huffily, “my abilities of observation and reasoning are only slightly enhanced by my feline attributes. The rest is purely my own mental gifts, thank-you-very-much!” 

Something had been nagging at me--something Lestrade had said--so I jumped into the conversation. “Greg, you said you could have used his expertise on werefolk before. What do you mean?” 

Lestrade still looked distinctly annoyed but chose to answer my question rather than to hector Sherlock. “As I said before, we’ve found bodies of werefolk before and dismissed their appearance as being due to birth defects, but lately we’ve been finding more bodies that weren’t just dead, they were like the one you saw last night—butchered and crushed. There’s been a real uptick in these cases. They run the gamut: wolves, cats, simians, you name it. We’ve got a crime wave here and we don’t have any idea how to deal with it.” He turned to face Sherlock, whose face was set in an expression of deep concern. “We could really use your help on this one,” he said through gritted teeth. It galled Lestrade to ask Sherlock for help so soon after laying into him for something. 

Sherlock tapped pensively on his lower lip with an extended claw. “Hmmm. Strange I haven’t heard about this from the community. This is exactly the sort of thing they should have come to me about,” he mused before looking up at Lestrade. “Yes, of course I will help you, with this and the other cases, if you’ve enough information for me to work with. I can contact other communities within the city and find out if they have any idea what’s going on. Do you know if there are any similar cases in the surrounding countryside, Gavin?” 

Lestrade gave Sherlock a dim look. “It’s Greg, as you well know, and I don’t have that information right now. However, I _can_ get it for you, if you’re interested in pursuing it outside my division.” 

Sherlock nodded absently. “Yes, excellent. That would be very helpful. John and I are going to go down to St. Bart’s to look at the body from last night, so while we do that, you could gather information for us on other cases. Agreed?” 

“Agreed. Don’t take too long getting started, though. We have a mini-crime wave going on here and I want this bastard caught as soon as possible. These werefolk may not be our average citizens but they sure as hell don’t deserve to die like this.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “As soon as we’re dressed and fed, we’ll be on our way. Keep us informed.” 

Lestrade set down his half-finished tea on the kitchen table. “Great. Good. And, by the way,” he said, pointing his finger at Sherlock again (Lestrade _loves_ to point at things, I noted), “Once this is over, you and I are going to have a long talk about you and your ‘community’.” 

Sherlock rolled his gold, slitted eyes in aggrievement. “Very well, Lestrade. But let’s take care of the business at hand first, shall we? After all, I doubt any of the communities are doing this to themselves.” 

Lestrade ducked his head in accord. “Fine. See you later,” he said as he strode out the door. Half-way down the stairs he stopped and called up, “And if I find out you’ve been hiding _anything_ _else_ like this from me, I am going to throw the both of you in the clink for withholding evidence!” And, with that, he clomped down the stairs and out onto the street, slamming the front door behind him. 

I turned to look at Sherlock, who was calmly sipping the last of his tea. “Well, I think that went rather well,” I deadpanned. “Considering.” 

Sherlock smirked into his mug. “Interesting. I hadn’t realized that Lestrade knew about us. Oh, I figured they’d found a few bodies over the years, but the communities are usually pretty good at covering up such things; policing their own, as it were. And to have the bodies tested for DNA! I didn’t think they would actually take it that far.” He looked down at me, amused. “Just imagine what Donovan and Anderson are going to call me now!” He laughed softly. 

“I daresay one of them will try to bribe you with catnip or something,” I joked back. 

“A squeaky toy,” he added and we both laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. He walked around to the other side of the table and sat down to pour himself another cup of tea. I slid my mug over and he refreshed it as well. “Well, this certainly adds a bit of spice to the case, doesn’t it?” he snickered. “I wonder if he will tell anyone else about me? It might create difficulties in the long run.” 

“In the short run as well, I would think. His officers might not want to work with you. They’re not too thrilled about it now.” 

“And they might wonder if you, too, are harboring secrets, John,” he pointed out, thrusting his mug at me for emphasis. 

That gave me pause. “Yes, one of us with a secret is one thing. Having the ‘unknown quantity’ in your midst is quite another.” I looked at him sharply. “You don’t suppose they’ll want me to undergo a DNA test or something, do you?” 

He sipped his tea, his mind apparently a million miles away, before he responded. “Imagine if the rest of the world found out about us; the paranoia, the hate crimes, the discrimination. Mankind always needs someone to suppress, to feel superior to. Race, religion, sexual orientation—it’s the same old game, only with new players.” He set down his mug. “No, John, we can’t afford to bring this out in the open yet. I doubt that Lestrade will tell anyone who doesn’t ‘need to know’ about us, about my people.” Partially extended claws clicked against the sides of the mug as he considered. “I just need to be careful not to get stressed out like I did last night. An unexpected public downshift could have profound consequences.” 

We finished our tea in silence, both of us contemplating our next steps. I wondered how much Molly knew about this situation, as well as Sherlock’s people, already. As a pathologist, she might have been privy to prior cases. She could be of great assistance to us. But what if she had been kept in the dark? Is that even possible, considering what Lestrade had said? She might have had to collect the samples herself, depending on how long ago they had been run. 

I looked up to find Sherlock watching me, pupils wide in the dim light of the kitchen. His ears pricked forward attentively. “What’s on your mind, John? Concerned about the case, or is there something more?” 

“Just concerned about how much Molly knows about the case and if she can help us with the previous ones. I mean, is it OK for us to talk to her about your people, or are we supposed to keep things from her? I don’t think that would be to our best advantage.” 

He sighed. “Difficult to tell. You could be right. We’ll have to ‘feel out’ the situation when we get there.” Then his eyes brightened in excitement. “Are you ready to get going?” 

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Won’t take me but a few minutes to dress. What about you? You can’t go in there looking like that!” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I can be dressed in a few minutes as well. As for this,” he waggled his ears at me facetiously, “That takes no longer to change than it took the other night. So, I’ll meet you here in 10?” He grinned like a Cheshire Cat. 

I nodded. “In 10, then. And tuck that tail in! We don’t want to get it caught in any cab doors!” 

Sherlock snorted laughter as he went into his bedroom.


	4. The Tail of the Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will have to allow his secret to be told before he and John can find out who is hunting--and killing--werefolk.

The cab ride to St. Bart’s was uneventful. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining, so Sherlock was in a fairly good mood. Even in his full-on human mode, he _hated_ getting wet. I try not to think about sharing a cab with a wet, disgruntled werecat.

 

Molly Hooper was bustling about the lab when we arrived, as usual. She always tried to have a sunny disposition, even on the most trying of days, many of which were caused by Sherlock. She smiled and waved when she saw us arrive in the morgue.

 

“Good morning, Molly,” I said, favoring her with my brightest smile, which she returned unabashedly. Sherlock merely breezed in, nodding imperiously--and somewhat absent-mindedly--in her direction. Her smile faded as her eyes followed him into the room, then shifted back to meet mine. Her expression pretty much said it all. I shrugged noncommitally. I knew she had a bit of a crush on Sherlock, but I also knew that he was pretty much impervious to _any_ woman’s charms, even one as sweet and intelligent as Molly.

 

“The victim from the other day--the one with the crushed head--have you finished the autopsy?” Sherlock asked, his tone crisp and businesslike. I was one of the very few people who ever heard any warmth in that deep baritone. He silently followed her as she walked to her desk and fished around for the report. When she turned around, she nearly bumped into him, and her cheeks colored prettily as her eyes dipped in embarrassment. She thrust the clipboard at him in an awkward fashion. He took it wordlessly, gracefully, but with no apparent notice of her reaction. Flipping through the few pages, his sharp eyes took in every detail, his brilliant mind already formulating questions.

 

“Did you find any parts missing from the body, Molly?” he asked, in a clipped, almost brusque, manner. She raised her eyes to his and started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Something about the head, perhaps? The hands? Anything? Speak up!” His eyes were blazing with intensity.

 

“Sherlock!” I admonished him. He turned and regarded me with a puzzled look on his face. “Give Molly a chance, will you? You’re being especially rude today!”

 

I don’t know if it was my words or my tone of voice, but Sherlock _at least_ had the good sense to look somewhat shamefaced. He turned back to Molly and said, “My…apologies, Molly. I am, perhaps, a bit on edge today. I was…unwell yesterday.”

 

Molly smiled awkwardly up at him. “That’s OK, Sherlock. I heard that you weren’t feeling well at the crime scene.” When Sherlock’s head snapped up, she added, “Detective Lestrade accompanied the body in yesterday. He said you looked pale and had to leave early. I’m so sorry.” She walked over to the freezer, opened the door, and pulled out the sheet-covered body. Sherlock and I joined her beside the pallet.

 

Even though the body had been refrigerated overnight, I could see that the residual odors wafting up from the corpse were beginning to affect Sherlock. He had told Lestrade that his werecat state only minimally enhanced his senses, but I suspected, somehow, that this wasn’t entirely the case. He was looking mildly nauseated, holding his scarf over his rumpled nose. I turned to Molly. “Molly, would you happen to have a respirator handy? I’m not sure Sherlock is completely recovered yet.”

 

“Of course, John,” she beamed as she scooted off in search of the device. I knew, without looking, that Sherlock was giving me a disgruntled look. I held up my hand to forestall the complaint.

 

“Save it,” I said, brooking no dissent. “You already look like you’ve got the collywobbles. You need your other senses right now more than your nose.” He grunted in assent through his scarf. “And be nicer to Molly. You know she likes you.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes eloquently. “Yes, I know. Do you think I can’t smell it on her? Why do you think I try to discourage her? It gives me no pleasure to be impolite.” When I snorted in disbelief, he snarled, “Shut up! What would you have me do, John? Take her to dinner? Share a can of Fancy Feast?” He looked away pointedly. “Not only is she _not_ my species, she’s not even my… _type_ ,” he finished lamely.

 

I just stared at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me that your people never, how to say, co-mingle with humans? I mean, you’re compatible, aren’t you? Physically, I mean.”

 

He wrinkled his nose, only this time it wasn’t from the smell. “ _Sexually_ is what you mean. Yes, we are compatible ‘in that way’, just not genetically. It takes two werecats to procreate.” He shrugged uncomfortably. His voice lowered significantly. “We shouldn’t be discussing such things here. We don’t know how much Molly knows already.”

 

“Mmm,” I agreed, turning my head to see where Molly had gotten to. I saw her through the glass partition of the viewing room talking to Lestrade, who waved at me before nodding to Molly and leaving. Molly turned toward us, holding up the respirator in triumph as she re-entered the morgue.

 

“Found it!” she announced jubilantly. She handed it to Sherlock with a shy smile. “Sorry it took so long, but I don’t usually need it, so it just gets shuffled around the lab. I only use it in severe decomp cases.” She watched as Sherlock donned the mask and adjusted it. The relief on his face was immediate. He tapped the respirator and nodded his thanks to Molly, whose smile widened in response.

 

I tapped Molly on the arm and asked, “What did Lestrade have to say? Anything new about the case?”

 

She looked at me in momentary confusion before replying, “Oh! Yes! In fact, he told me that I should give you all the information I have on any suspicious werefolk deaths over the past few years. He said Sherlock is an expert.” She turned to Sherlock and said, gleefully, “That’s so exciting!  I never would have imagined! Have you lived with them? You couldn’t possibly _be_ one of them, could you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went round and dark and he hissed quietly under the mask. Before last night, I would have missed the cues entirely. I laid my hand on his arm to calm him; obviously the odors from the cadaver had raised his hackles before he had put on the respirator. I gave him a little shake and he turned his eyes toward me.

 

“No harm telling her, Sherlock. If we pool our knowledge, it could all be for the better,” I counseled. “You know we can trust Molly.”

 

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head minutely. _No_.

 

 “Look, I’ll tell her, OK? That way, you can still keep your promise. The _spirit_ of the law, if not the letter.”

 

I could see his eyes unfocus as he considered this; his practical, logical side warring with his need to keep his oath of secrecy and his inherent sense of privacy. Lestrade walking in on him was one thing; _volunteering_ the information was another. Finally, he just nodded, eyes downcast, as if in defeat.

 

I turned back  to Molly. “Sherlock is a werecat. Lestrade found out by accident this morning, when he walked in on Sherlock in his feline form. I only found out myself last night, equally by accident. Lestrade asked us to help solve this spate of werefolk murders that has been going on lately.” I looked up at Sherlock, who was watching me intently. “His sense of smell is so acute that, even in this form, he almost underwent a forced change at the crime scene due to the body’s odors. He was able to hold it off until we got home, but just barely.”

 

Molly could barely contain herself. “Sherlock, do you think…maybe you could, you know, change for me? So I can see the process and examine you? It’s really hard to figure some things out from dead bodies alone.” She practically bounced on her feet like a little girl excited about a new toy.

 

I could see how discomfited Sherlock was by this discussion. I’m sure he felt that it was bad enough Molly had a crush on him; _now_ she viewed him as a lab specimen as well. I stepped in again. “Maybe at a later date, if you don’t mind, Molly. It’s rather a personal matter for him. Now, can we get to the autopsy?”

 

She clasped her hands in front of her mouth in excitement. “Oh, of course! I understand. Well,” she said, suddenly all business, as she peeled the sheet off the mangled body, “As you can see, the entire cranium has been crushed by a blunt object wielded with some strength. There is distinct patterning on some of the tissues. We’ve photographed them and sent them off to forensics for comparison, but the thought is that it might be the butt end of a rifle or shotgun. We’ll know better after their study is done. Also, Sherlock, you asked if anything was missing. Well, the head seems to be missing anything identifiable as human ears. We’re going to try to reconstruct the cranium but, just from what I’m seeing, it almost looks like there isn’t enough bone to create the cranial vault. Some of the scalp also seems to be missing. The whole head seems… _light_ , somehow.”

 

Sherlock leaned in to examine the remains. “This woman was being pursued by someone perceived to be a threat, so much so that she downshifted into her werecat form, but _not_ into full-on cat, or you’d know,” he noted, his voice muffled by the respirator. “At the crime scene, I noticed the obvious tang of fear and the natural odor of a werecat in default form. It was…overwhelming. There was also the smell of gunpowder. Did you find a bullet anywhere in the body or head, Molly?”

 

“No,” she admitted, her nose wrinkling a bit in perplexity. “It might have been a through-and-through, but no bullets or casings have been found in the vicinity. Also, if someone was going to destroy the cranium so thoroughly, it wouldn’t be hard to just dig the slug out of the brain and take it with them.” She shuddered slightly. “It’s inhuman, what someone did to this poor woman.”

 

“Do we have an identity yet?” I inquired.

 

Molly nodded. “Yes, we found some old ID under the body.” She consulted the toe tag. “Her name was Kitty Reilly. Used to be a reporter until she got caught up in some scandal years ago, then fell on hard times. Very sad.”

 

“Yes, I remember,” Sherlock replied, blandly, while casting a look at me. I nodded. Yes, we both remembered that time very, _very_ well. “She became one of the homeless and, as such, part of the Network.”

 

“Network?” Molly asked, cocking her head to the side.

 

“Uh, yes, Sherlock sometimes employs some of the homeless to assist him in his investigations,” I clarified.

 

Sherlock nodded. “While living on the street, she was attacked and bitten by a werecat, thereby becoming one of them.”

 

I looked at him, astounded. I hadn’t even thought to ask…”You never mentioned that. Is that how you became a…”

 

He shook his head. “No,” he replied, his voice muffled. “I was born werecat, but some can be, shall we say, ‘converted’ by a bite of sufficient damage. If it doesn’t kill you, you become werefolk. Mutable genetic material, almost viral in nature.” He looked directly at Molly, his eyes intense. “Can you tell me, Molly, did you find anything that was… _non-human_ amidst all the removed organs and tissues?”

 

She frowned becomingly. “Non-human? I don’t know…”

 

Sherlock stepped away from the body and ripped off the respirator in a fit of pique. “Think, Molly, think! This is a werecat, half human, half feline. What might be missing from such a being? Say, if it had been…hunted?”

 

Molly’s eyes grew wide in realization. “Of course! A hunter would want a souvenir or trophy. Wait…” she stopped, her expression horrified. “Are you saying that this poor woman was hunted down, shot, and…and…” Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked like she was about to vomit.

 

“Two ears and a tail. Common in bull-fighting. Look.” He moved back toward the body, but not before taking a deep breath of clean air. He pointed to the corpse. “No feline pinnae, no caudal appendage. Did they find anything like that at the scene?”

 

“No,” Molly said in a small voice. She reached under the sheet on one side and pulled up an arm. “I noticed this, too.” She pointed at the hand. “The fingertips have all been carefully cut off, and we didn’t find them lying around, either.” She replaced the arm and covered it again. “We thought they were just trying to obscure the identity of the victim by removing fingerprints and destroying the face, but had accidentally left the ID behind, but, if what you say is true…”

 

Sherlock’s visage was grim. “Someone is sending us a message. They know who we are and are putting us on notice; they are the hunters, we are the prey. They can find us, they can kill us, and no one will know the true story.”

 

“We do,” I asserted. Molly and Sherlock turned toward me. I repeated myself. “We know. They made a mistake of underestimating us. They made the mistake of not knowing that the greatest consulting detective in the world is on the case.”

 

I smiled at the thought of what our perpetrators would do once they realized what kind of whirlwind they had reaped.


	5. A Change in The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting at the morgue provides crucial information, while an unexpected encounter leads to a shocking experience.

There was a brisk breeze blowing as we left St. Barts after our consultation with Molly. Sherlock had, as per usual, turned up the collar of his coat, claiming he was cold, but I knew better. He knew that doing that accentuated his cheekbones and made him look more ‘forbidding’, an image he obviously cherished. I just chuckled to myself, which annoyed the hell out of him. He ‘hmphed’ and settled deeper into his Belstaff, hand stuffed into his pockets.

 

“One day, you’re going to fall on your face because you’ll be unable to get your hands out of your pockets in time to stop your fall,” I observed, somewhat acidly. _Pretentious git._

 

“My reflexes are far faster than then; faster, even, than your flapping tongue,” he barked back, obviously annoyed.

 

“ _Ooooh_ , someone’s in a right foul mood today,” I poked back.

 

Sherlock shot me a look full of venom. “You forced me to betray my people, John.”

 

My eyes rolled of their own accord. “Oh, _please_ , spare me your righteous indignation, Sherlock. We needed Molly’s expert opinion, and, besides that, _you_ didn’t tell her, _I_ did, so you’re off the hook, so to speak.”

 

“A distinction without a difference,” he sniffed, haughtily. “It was _my_ secret to give away, not yours.”

 

“ _You_ gave me permission.”

 

“ _You_ left me no choice in the matter.”

 

We walked along for a ways, each wrapped in our own bad mood, until we reached an alleyway we would normally use as a shortcut back to Baker Street, when Sherlock casually remarked, “We are being followed.”

 

I stopped suddenly and started to turn, but Sherlock’s iron grip around my upper arm stopped me. “Don’t look, just trust me on this.”

 

I swallowed. “I do. Anyone we know?”

 

He shook his head minutely. “No, but he walks when we walk, stops when we stop. Dressed casually, not homeless or part of the network, very intent on shadowing us without making our acquaintance, so he’s _possibly_ working for someone who wishes to remain anonymous.” His eyes were like steel as they bore into mine. “This does not bode well for us, but we can meet him on our terms, not his, if we take this alleyway. He will either have to veer off or follow us. If he follows, we can confront him. If not…”

 

I nodded. “A good plan,” I commented. “But, how about this; I’ll split off and pretend to run an errand, then follow him when he follows _you_ into the alley. Then we can catch him between us.”

 

Sherlock nodded and a smile touched his lips. “An even _better_ plan. My Boswell is learning…”

 

I must admit, I grinned in spite of myself. A compliment from Sherlock could warm anyone’s heart.

 

I pretended to be running off and bade Sherlock adieu as he headed into the alley and I took the long way around. After a few minutes, I looked over my shoulder to see that our shadow had crossed the street and entered the alleyway. I turned and ran as fast as my admittedly-short legs could carry me and slipped into the alley behind him. Using all the stealth of which I was capable, I crept along in the long shadows of the afternoon, wishing to heaven that I had brought my gun. While some people might think I carry it all the time, this is emphatically _not_ the case. My firearm is unlicensed and best left so; to be caught with it would get me into more trouble than I care to think about. Sherlock would owe Mycroft another favor, and I know how he _hates_ that…

 

Farther up ahead, I could see the slender form of my flatmate walking purposefully toward the street, followed by another, more secretive form sneaking up after him. Suddenly, Sherlock turned and yelled, “Hey, there! Who are you? Why are you following me? Whom do you represent?”

 

_“Whom”. Bloody grammar nazi. Vernacular’s not good enough for him…_

 

The figure stood to its full height, even taller than Sherlock and broader by far. His voice was deep and rumbly. “I came to warn you, Mr. ‘olmes.”

 

I could see Sherlock cock his head questioningly. “About what? Or, perhaps, about _whom_?”

 

_Pretentious bastard._

 

The looming figure between Sherlock and me flexed his shoulders and rolled his neck, as if in preparation for a fight. “Not me, I can assure you. You’ve ‘elped some of my friends, and I’ll not forget that. But I ’ave to warn you about…the Shakiri.”

 

Sherlock frowned as he searched his memory. I knew what the man had said, however. The _Shakiri_. The Big Game Hunter.

 

My mind flew back to the morgue. Kitty Reilly’s body. Ears and tail missing. _Oh, God_ …

 

“It means The Hunter, Sherlock!” I yelled, as I stood up from the shadows. And _that_ was pretty much the last thing I remember coherently from that night.

 

To the best of my at-best-spotty memory of the event, the figure started, then turned in one liquid movement and leapt toward me. I saw a face; Sherlock’s transformed face had been frightening, but this man’s was terrifying, all snout and fangs and two pointed ears…I swear to God, he changed, in mid-flight, into a giant wolf as Sherlock screamed, “No! He’s…”

 

That’s as far as he got before a 20 stone “manimal” struck me with such force that I was knocked back into the nearest wall and pinned there by an unbearable weight. The frothing and snarling was bad enough, but it was followed by a burning, tearing pain in my right arm and shoulder, which I feared had been ripped from its socket. I must have been screaming but I don’t remember what, if anything, I said. I was just staring, transfixed, at this monstrous creature standing atop me, ready to administer the _coup de grace_.

 

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, close by, and the creature reared back, roaring in rage, before taking off down the alley past Sherlock, nearly knocking him over in the process. My head rolled dazedly in the direction of the sound, so I was able to see Lestrade running up the alley toward me, arriving just before Sherlock did.

 

“John! _John_!” I heard Sherlock’s voice as if through a distortion filter.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell was _that_ thing?”

 

Both men fell to their knees at my sides. Sherlock’s quick fingers pulling my jacket zipper down and yanking the fabric aside so he could examine my wound.

 

“That _thing_ , Lestrade, was a real-life, dyed-in-the-wool werewolf, come to deliver me a warning. Come, help me get John back to Baker Street. _NOW_!” he growled as he used his scarf to staunch the bleeding, just as I had taught him. _Good lad…_

 

“Let me call an ambulance…”

 

I remember Sherlock turning to him and snarling, “ _NO_! No hospital can help him right now. We need to get him back to Baker Street. But first…” He grabbed my arm, slid the sleeve up to reveal my left forearm, and bit deeply into it, holding the bite for several seconds before releasing.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU BASTARD!” I screamed again, as much from surprise as pain. “Stop biting my fucking arm!”

 

“Shut up, John. You’ll thank me later… _if_ you survive,” Sherlock rapped out as he grabbed me by my bitten arm and Lestrade swooped under the other, the one that had been savaged. I bit back another scream at the searing agony that move inspired, as they half-walked, half-carried me through the streets, ignoring the surprised looks they met along the way.

 

I drifted into and out of consciousness as they dragged my useless body up the stairs and into the flat. Once there, Sherlock instructed Lestrade to run a bath while he divested me of my clothing. All this time, I watched the proceedings with a dispassionate air, not actually feeling anything anymore due to shock.

 

“Shherrrrllllockkk…”

 

He spared me a glance. “Hush, John, now’s not the time. We need to get your wounds washed and treated before…” He looked deeply into my eyes and I was struck by the galaxy of colors I found there. I’d never before noticed how beautiful they were. “Hang on, John.”

 

I nodded, drunkenly, then looked at my right shoulder. _Savaged_ wasn’t even the right word. It was ripped open, bone exposed, sinew sundered, joint disconnected, and arm dangling. I stared at it with clinical detachment. “That’ll never heal right,” I slurred, amazed at how calm I was after suffering such a crippling injury.

 

Sherlock looked up at me as he removed my socks and pants. “You’ll be fine, John. I took precautions immediately. Now, we’ll just have to see how things progress. I won’t lie to you; the next few days will be rough ones, but I will be with you every step of the way,” he reassured me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice sound so gentle before.

 

He moved me from the lid of the toilet, where he had sat me down to disrobe me, and both he and Lestrade placed me in the tub, where the warm water immediately started turning red. Lestrade held a towel over the wound, compressing it painfully to keep me from bleeding out, while Sherlock hunted down the supplies needed to treat the wound. Once obtained, Sherlock did a yeoman’s job cleaning the wound while Lestrade administered general anesthesia straight from the bottle. It still hurt like hell, but I think I passed out before Sherlock started stitching me up, so _that_ was a blessing.

 

One odd thing I did notice before going night-night was that, after Sherlock cleaned out the wound, he actually _drooled_ into it. I think I took some exception to that and was told, roundly and sharply, to shut up and let him do his work. Then Lestrade gave me another swig and I was out.

 

The next couple of days were…weird; that’s the only way I can describe it. I spent most of it in bed—Sherlock’s bed, to be precise. He told me later that he wanted to have me close to the bathroom and someplace where he could keep a close eye on me. Mrs. Hudson stopped by occasionally, clucked over me like a mother hen, and left food and advice, only half of which Sherlock actually accepted. Lestrade visited, too, checking in to make sure I hadn’t died yet and encouraging Sherlock to take me to hospital, which, of course, he didn’t.

 

That wasn’t the weirdest part, however; that came in the form of dreams; dreams so real I could have sworn I was running through fields and forests like a wild animal, howling at the moon and hunting fresh prey. When I looked at my hands, they were paw-like. My skin was covered in dark, coarse fur and I had a long, graceful tail. My hearing and sense of smell were exquisitely enhanced, while my night vision was superb. My heart beat fiercely within my barrel chest, filling me with exhilaration and a sense of freedom I’ve never known. I knew it was all a dream, but I loved every second of it.

 

I awoke one morning to find Sherlock asleep beside me, curled up on top of the covers like a cat.  He was sporting his cat ears and tail, and his face was beautifully feline as he slept, the smallest purr emanating from his throat as he nuzzled his head against my good arm. I had to smile; it was too damned good.

 

“Sherlock,” I whispered, and his eyes popped open, looking up at me appraisingly.

 

“John,” he murmured back, before turning onto his back and stretching like a cat. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, as he rolled back toward me and laid his fingers against my cheek--checking my temperature, I guess.

 

“Not bad, considering,” I mumbled back. “Surprised I’m not in more pain. My shoulder will probably never heal right, you know. You should have taken me to hospital,” I added, not as a rebuke, just as an observation.

 

Sherlock looked up at me and smiled. “Try moving your arm,” he suggested.

 

I frowned. “Can’t. Muscles have been shredded. Saw that myself yesterday.”

 

Sherlock grinned more broadly. His white fangs gleamed. “It’s been several days, John. Much has changed since then.” He levered himself up on his elbows and, leaning toward me, used one finger to poke me in the solar plexus, hard.

 

“OW! You blooming idiot, why’d you go and do that…” I started before I noticed that, when I had flinched, nothing hurt. _Nothing_. I looked to my right shoulder to see no bandages, no blood, and no wound. Not even a scar! When I moved it, it felt a little stiff but, otherwise, was quite functional. My jaw dropped as I turned to Sherlock, who was grinning like a loon. “Sherlock, what…”?

 

“You survived, John. Not everyone does, but you did.” He laid his hand on my shoulder before continuing. “Welcome to my tribe, John. Welcome to the werefolk.”


	6. Werewolf? There, Wolf...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has never been expert at delivering bad news, but, this time, he could hardly expect the reaction his revelations might bring...

Time ground to a sudden, inexplicable halt. No sound. Feels like floating. Everything moving in slow motion.

 

_No_.

 

_That’s impossible._

 

_It’s not…real. It’s a dream. It’s insane._

**_I’m_ ** _insane. That’s it. I’ve lost my mind. I’ve suffered some sort of head trauma and lost my…_

“John.”

 

_Familiar voice. Sherlock? Is he here to visit me? That’s nice…did he bring his big, scary dog with him? I hope not._

 

“JOHN!”

 

_Came here to visit me in the loony bin. Glad he came, no doggie. So tired…why so tired?_

 

**_> SLAP<_ **

 

“Ow! You bloody bastard, what was that for?” I shouted as I put my hand against my stinging cheek. The world suddenly jolted back into sharp focus.

 

_Sherlock’s bedroom…what the hell am I doing here?_

 

Sherlock moved his face to within a just a few inches of mine and peered into my eyes. “Therapy. You were experiencing an episode of dissociation due to a severe shock to your system.”

 

I rubbed my eyes. “What…I don’t…remember…”

 

“Hmm. Disappointing. I _had_ hoped you’d take it better than this.”

“Take what? My God, Sherlock, _why_ _aren’t you making any sense_?” I yelled. I knew I was carrying on a bit, but I was still disoriented and _so_ bloody tired. “And stop staring at me like a hungry cat!” I growled. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

“I might ask _you_ the same question, John,” Sherlock replied, a bit snappishly. “You’re still somewhat divorced from reality, obviously. Confused, mentally compromised. Of course, I’ve never _seen_ an actual conversion before, only heard tell of them, so this _might_ be normal. I’m just a bit concerned for your health, John.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s nice of you, Sherlock. _I’m_ a little concerned for me right now, too. I’m having trouble remembering what you just told me…”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Perhaps if I put it a bit more gently this time…John, you were attacked and injured by the man that you followed down the alleyway. Do you remember that?”

 

I nodded. It seemed far away, but the memory was still there.

 

“Well, Lestrade and I brought you back here so I could treat your wounds and observe your condition over the next few days. I knew that, if you survived the attack, there would be…repercussions.”

 

“Wouldn’t I have had better odds for survival at hospital?” I asked, groggily.

 

For once, Sherlock looked unsure. “I don’t know, John. True, they _would_ have been able to treat your wounds more efficiently than I, but there _was_ the danger that, over the next few days, you might… _succumb_ to your condition.”

 

“ _Die_ , you mean.”

 

Sherlock cast his eyes down. “No. What I mean is, you _could_ have… _changed_ …”

 

“Into what? Sherlock…”  A sudden moment of clarity struck like a cricket back to the head. “Wait. You’re not trying to tell me that madman was…”

 

“A werewolf, yes. Don’t you remember _any of this_ , John?”

 

I frowned and held up a hand. “Okay, give me a moment… I think I vaguely remember _that_. God, that _face_ …!”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, he transformed more quickly than even _I_ have ever seen. A trained hunter, that one. He could _easily_ have killed you, but he ran when Lestrade shot at him.”

 

I mulled this over for a moment before formulating my next question. “So, explain me, again, _why_ would it have been more dangerous for me to be here, _untreated_ , than in hospital, under medical care?”

 

Sherlock looked mildly offended. “You _were_ treated, John, by _me,_ as only one of the werefolk could. I know _perfectly well_ what needs to be done in the case of forced conversion. What _I_ was most worried about was that _you_ might have gone into full-on werewolf mode and rampaged through the hospital. One stress event, and the people around you could have died. Instead, I treated your wounds _here_ and stayed with you, providing a calm environment in which you could heal, so you would _not_ transform.”

 

I smiled, still feeling pretty muddled. “Yeah, I remember hearing you purr. It was… _nice_.”

 

He looked up at me and returned the smile. “It was the least I could do. That, and I periodically had to take measures to ensure you healed quickly, something I couldn’t do if you were in hospital.”

 

That jogged something in my memory and I looked down at my left arm. It was completely healed, but I could still vaguely remember the stab of feline fangs when Sherlock bit me. I looked up at him quizzically.

 

“Yes,” he nodded. “The bite was meant to introduce a werecat’s healing factor into your system. Each group of werefolk has a gift; healing factor is a werecat’s. I knew that, given enough of this factor injected directly into your body through an open wound, you would most likely heal as well as, or better than, you would in hospital.  I was also hoping…” His eyes dropped as he ground to a halt.

 

I reached out and prodded him in the shoulder. “Don’t stop now. What were you hoping?”

 

Sherlock settled back on his haunches, putting a bit of distance between us before looking up. He sighed. “I was hoping that, by introducing more of _my_ DNA into your body than that of the wolf, you would become a were _cat_. I mean, otherwise, you might find yourself howling at the moon, running in packs, living in the countryside…werewolves don’t thrive in cities, like werecats, you know.”

 

“Oh,” was all I said. There didn’t seem to be anything else _to_ say. It was all just a little bit mad as it was.

 

“This is all my fault, John,” Sherlock said, the words fairly bursting from his lips. “I should have protected you better. I…”

 

I reached out, laid my hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and shook him gently. “No, it’s not. Did you know that man was a werewolf before we separated?” Sherlock shook his head no. “Then you couldn’t have done anything to change what happened. If anything, _I_ should have been more cautious. Standing up and shouting like that… _that’s_ what set him off, not you.”

 

His eyes lowered, despite my words. I knew he felt responsible and, yet, nothing I said could reach him at that moment. After his initial joy that I had survived, he was now, obviously, racked with guilt that I had become something… _else_. Something that had _not_ been part of the original bargain between us.

 

“So-o-o, what am I to expect now?” I asked, in a futile attempt to divert my friend from his dark thoughts. “Howling at the moon sounds like it might actually be fun…”

 

“STOP IT, John! This isn’t funny, it _isn’t_ a joke! I’ve been werefolk since I was born, but this has been thrust upon you _by me_!” He looked away in self-disgust. “I should never have allowed you to become involved in this case. You are _my_ responsibility, it was _my_ fault you were attacked…”

 

“Now, _you_ stop it! _I_ am responsible for my own actions, _not you_! I will _not_ have you taking the blame for this! You saved my life when I did something rash and got injured! My God, Sherlock, I am _not_ your responsibility! If anything, you’re _mine_! _I_ was the soldier, _not you_. _YOU_ are the idiot savant who couldn’t cover his own arse with a blanket! _You’re_ the one who keeps getting into trouble that _I_ have to get you out of! _Fucking hell_ …what? Sherlock?”

 

I was jarred out of my fit of pique by the look on Sherlock’s face. I had seen many different expressions play across that visage before, but seldom this one. It was, plainly and simply, fear.

 

At that same moment, I noticed something that had escaped my attention until then. As my annoyance turned to anger, my body seemed to tingle, to buzz, to… _change_. There was no pain, no sudden transformation, no mindless rage or loss of intellect, as I would had expected. Instead, my hearing became phenomenally acute, my eyes sharper, my hands…my…tail?

 

Sherlock backed away from me with a hiss. His ears flattened as his pupils went to slits in alarm. I could swear he almost… _bristled_. Leaping out of bed with an agility I had _never_ , even in my younger, rugby-playing days, possessed, I found myself standing in a semi-crouched position; it was difficult to straighten my knees completely while bearing my weight upright. I gazed at my fingers; they possessed long, sharp claws at the tips, with rough pads on the balls and palms.

 

“Fuck,” was all I could manage.

 

I looked up at Sherlock, still crouched on the bed, all wariness. He had cocked his head to the side appraisingly, as if analyzing the situation I now found myself in. He wrinkled his nose and his mouth opened ever-so-slightly, as if _tasting_ the air.

 

“Interesting,” he remarked, his nose wrinkling. “I may have been incorrect in my initial deduction, John. I can now detect the tang of _canus_ far more than _lupus_. There is even a touch of _felis_ , oddly enough. They don’t usually go together, but that may be the result of my attempts to save your life.” He crawled carefully off the bed and gave me a good, long sniff. “Yes, canus, definitely. Our messenger was a wolf-dog _hybrid_ , not an actual wolf. More like a German Shepherd mix. Hmmph. _Someone_ had a fling with the dog next door…” he observed, wryly. His whole posture relaxed. Even his tail, which had been held high and stiff, had curled around his thigh, the tip of it twitching in thought. “I must admit, John, canus is somewhat… _becoming_ on you.”

 

I’m not sure if I blushed or not at the odd compliment, but my face felt hot. Sherlock and I have always been close, but _this_ was an odd new twist. “’Becoming?’ How so?”

 

He smiled, baring perfect white fangs. “I have always fancied you to be something of a ‘watchdog’ for me over the years. Now, it seems, you are that and _more_.” He looked down. “And your tail is _definitely_ quite handsome.”

 

I looked around at my bum to see a lovely, long, fur-fringed tail, and it was… _wagging_ , quite against my will. “Why is it doing that? Why won’t it stop?” I asked, feeling quite disgruntled.

 

Sherlock laughed. “Sometimes our bodies betray us, John. Something deep inside you is secretly pleased about _something_ , so your tail wags. Also, your ears are quite upright and alert, depicting interest, rather than laid back in alarm.” He cocked his head. “It is up to _you_ to interpret what your body is reacting to.”

 

Yes, indeed, that did seem to be the question. What _was_ I reacting to? Not turning into a weredog; that hadn’t even been on the agenda. I inhaled in preparation for a frustrated sigh of immense proportions when it hit me. The smell. The scent of someone nearby. It was heady, it was alluring, it was…feline.

 

It was Sherlock.

 

_Holy…shit._

 

_God, he smells good. Probably tastes good, too._

 

_I wish I could lick him all over…_

 

_Wait…where did **that** come from?_

 

“John? Are you all right?”

 

I jolted back to myself suddenly. Sherlock had moved closer, was eyeing me with those luminous golden eyes, his breath ghosting over my face, into my nostrils, filling my senses with…

 

I stumbled backward, toward the door. The last thing I remember before I fled the room was Sherlock’s perplexed expression, the head tilt that indicated confusion and concern, the drooping ears and tail of my best friend in the whole world. I stammered some excuse about not feeling well and bumped into the door frame as I exited at speed.

 

“John?”

 

That one, faint word followed me as I ran around the corner, up the stairs, and into my bedroom, slamming the door with conviction. I leaned against it, panting as though I had chased a fox through the undergrowth.

 

There was no sound from downstairs. No foot upon the steps leading up. No rap on the door in query. I had left Sherlock downstairs and he had had the good sense not to follow. I needed time to come to grips with my new condition and all its ramifications, and the last thing I needed was to be distracted by my suddenly-too-gorgeous-to-be-ignored flatmate.


	7. The Nose Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson must now face the new abilities--and drawbacks--of becoming a were.

I didn’t come downstairs until early the next morning. I wanted to avoid Sherlock by all possible means until I could figure out how my new physicality would impact our relationship. I’d had a bit of a taste of _that_ the night before, and I wasn’t in a hurry to revisit it just yet.

 

Coffee, a stale Danish Sherlock hadn’t experimented on yet, and I was on my way to my practice.  I thought about staying home, but that would necessitate a run-in with my flatmate sooner rather than later. Besides, considering I had been a ripped-up mess just a few days before, I felt _great_! I found that my usual walk to work was _far_ more interesting than it had _ever_ been before. I began to _notice_ things in a whole new way. Everything seemed so much more… _intense_. I could hear a couple arguing in a flat that had to be three stories up, even though all the windows were closed. The heady, succulent scents from the baker down the street put my paltry breakfast to shame and made my head swim. I _almost_ started salivating, Pavlovian-style. I felt full of energy, my senses alive as never before.

 

_Is this what Sherlock experiences every day?_

 

Then, the down side. The second I opened the door of my practice’s waiting room, I was hit squarely in the face with the most _noxious_ smell possible. It almost made me puke. I looked around the small room and found nothing dead, decaying, defecating, or vomiting, so I proceeded inside, only to run into a new waft of it. Holding my hand over my nose and mouth, I ran into my office and slammed the door. Once inside, I was able to breathe once again; the stench hadn’t followed me inside, thank God!

 

A moment later, there was a tentative knock on the door. I cracked it open and was hit with yet _another_ hammer-blow of putridness. I swallowed hard and asked or, rather, gagged, “Yes, Jennie?”

 

“Are you all right, Doctor?” she asked, solicitous as always. I nodded, trying not to inhale too deeply.

 

“Are you wearing perfume today?” I choked, although the answer was obvious.

 

She smiled and nodded. “Yes! _Eau de Rose_ , same as always. Do you like it?” She waved a little of it through the doorway and I nearly heaved.

 

“NO!” I barked, then took control of myself again upon seeing her face fall. “I mean, it’s best not to wear perfume in a doctor’s practice, you know. Some people are allergic…”

 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t even _realize_! I’ll go take it off right away!” She ran to the loo, her scent following her like an obedient poodle. It was almost _visible_ , like a contrail of dead flowers! I closed the door again and breathed a sigh of relief.

 

_Funny, I’ve never noticed that smell on her before!_

 

I sneezed, violently. My body had to expel the noxious particulates of her perfume that had lodged in my now-all-too-sensitive nostrils. I sneezed again and ran to get a tissue from my desk before my nose dripped.

 

_This is ridiculous. How am I going to do a proper job if everyday odors make me nauseous and hyper-sensitive?_

 

A gentle knock on the door heralded my first patient.  “Come in,” I called out while grabbing handfuls of tissues. I blew my nose so hard it felt like my brain had just left the building.

 

Jennie stuck her head in the cracked door. “Doctor, Mr. Vandalay is here to see you.”

 

I nodded as I daubed at my unfairly-punished nose. She ushered in an elderly man who was known to me over the years as a bit of a hypochondriac. Any disease or ailment he read about in the Daily Mail was suddenly his major health concern. After wheezing himself into the chair in front of my desk and banging his cane on the floor, he opened his mouth to speak…

 

…and my mouth and nose were suddenly filled with an incredibly vile stench, the like of which I had only ever smelled in the morgue…

 

“Have you been having problems with your breathing lately, Mr. Vandalay?” I asked before I could even reason out _why_ I had asked.

 

He blinked in surprise. “Why, yes, Dr. Watson. For about a several months, I’ve been having a problem with a persistent cough and a little shortness of breath when I walk. But I’m not here for that! Did you read about that ricin attack outside of London? I was there a day or so later and I could have… …”

 

Prior to my “change”, I might have discounted Mr. Vandalay’s symptoms as being part of his lengthy cardiac history, but my nose now told me otherwise. Taking out a pad, I quickly wrote a prescription. “Mr. Vandalay, I want you to have a chest X-Ray at St. Barts _immediately_. Give this to Jennie and she’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”

 

His mouth dropped open. “But the ricin…”

 

I cut him off. “Mr.Vandalay, I think we need to take a look at your lungs _immediately_. Don’t worry about the ricin; if you had encountered _any_ of it, you’d be dead right now.” I’m not usually this blunt, but the odor and his obstinance were wearing my patience thin. I had to get those results…

 

His eyes went round and he grabbed the prescription from my hand. “Young man, if you make me waste my time with this…” He shook the paper at me in agitation.

 

Suddenly, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Every time he spoke, his fetid breath blew into my face and it was making me nauseous and angry. “ _Mr_. Vandalay, I believe you may have lung cancer. Now _, get the hell to St. Barts, do you hear me?”_

 

I had never seen the old coot move so fast in my life. He all but leapt out of his chair and did a three-legged sprint to the door, slamming it on his way out. In the waiting room, I could hear him sputtering, “That young man is crazy! I’m not going to…”

 

From my desk, I yelled, “Jennie, make the appointment, _right now_! Mr. Vandalay, either you go for an X-Ray under your own power or I will _carry_ you there under my arm!”

 

I heard two obedient “Yes, Doctor”s from the front room and smiled in satisfaction. My patient could complain all he wanted, but that would change once he’d been diagnosed and started on a proper course of treatment.

 

The rest of my day went very much along the same lines. One female patient complained about feeling fatigued since her recent weight gain. She also absolutely _reeked_ of fruity goodness, so I was able to start getting her New Onset Type II Diabetes under control with medication. Another patient had a discoloration on his leg that smelled like rotten flesh. After examination, I sent him to a specialist who would evaluate him for hyperbaric treatments of his incipient gangrene.

 

Every one of my patients left the room with a look of amazement as my heightened senses picked up more than my human ones ever did. I even may have prevented a possible murder attempt, as one patient showed up complaining about being ill for days without any apparent cause. One whiff and I could smell the sweet scent of something alcohol-based oozing from his pores. I asked him a few questions and he denied drinking anything alcoholic for days. He did admit, however, that he and his wife were going through a tough time of it and were thinking of getting a divorce. Thanks to my many experiences with Sherlock on poisoning cases, I advised him to avoid eating or drinking anything she gave him and to consider finding another place to stay for a while. He was dubious but agreed to do what I asked. After he left, I phoned Inspector Lestrade and told him about my suspicions. He was _also_ dubious but agreed to investigate.

 

At the end of the day, I strolled home feeling like I had suddenly become Superdoctor. These incredible, newly-heightened sensibilities were amazing! However, at the same time, I could see how they could be overwhelming over the long haul.

 

Then it hit me. _Maybe that’s why Sherlock is so moody sometimes. Too much input. Add **that** to his brilliant, ever-churning mind, and you have a sure recipe for crankiness._

 

As I entered the front door of 221, I couldn’t help but notice a certain stillness in the air.

 

_Mrs. Hudson must be out. No movement or fresh scents from her flat. But, where’s Sherlock?_

 

I mounted the stairs with my ears pricked, figuratively speaking. As I neared the twin doors of my flat, I caught a scent of something not-Sherlock. It almost burned my nose hairs off, it was so strong. I coughed as I entered the parlor to find Sherlock, sitting stock-still in his chair, reading a book. He looked up as I entered, his face devoid of expression and, yet, somehow expectant.

 

“God, what is that smell, Sherlock? Incense? It’s disgusting!” I said, my arm across my nose and mouth as I deposited my bag behind my chair.

 

“Jasmine, to be precise,” Sherlock stated. He laid the book in his lap, one finger keeping his place. “Meant to provide a ‘smoke-screen’, if you will. I have also dialed down my activity, so as not to trigger any…unforeseen reactions.”

 

I sat down, trying in vain to wave away the smell. “Why?” I coughed, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

 

“To allow us to talk without distraction and to keep your newly-enhanced senses from being swamped,” Sherlock replied calmly. He cocked his head and gazed at me with open curiosity. “How do you feel today? I didn’t expect you to go to work this morning, not after what you experienced last night. I thought you would have taken more time to…adapt. It’s not every day you turn into a weredog, you know. Or would you prefer werehound? Both are acceptable.”

 

“Yeah, uh, werehound is fine,” I said, answering his last question first. “Well, I didn’t see any reason to hang around _here_ when I felt perfectly fine…”

 

“And you wanted to distance yourself from me, as well,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly and with a knowing nod. “I’m not oblivious to the effect I had on you last night.”

 

I could feel a rush of blood to my face as I floundered around for an answer. Finally, I said, “No, you didn’t…”

 

Sherlock put on his best “Oh, really?” face as he set his book on the table beside him. “John, let’s not ignore the obvious. You found me attractive, didn’t you? It’s all right to admit it…”

 

“NO! No, it’s not! What happened last night…well, _nothing_ happened last night!” I protested.

 

Sherlock’s eyes rolled eloquently as he sighed in frustration. “John, stop being an ass. I can read body language with the best; you were alert, you were _aroused_ …”

 

“Shit,” I hissed. I felt trapped. He was right. I _was_ aroused. I just didn’t want anyone to know, _especially_ him.

_“Be a good little soldier”, Dad said as he beat me. “Don’t be a pansy boy.”_

 

Truth to tell, I had _always_ been attracted to Sherlock on some level. Initially, I had thought it was just friendship, combined with some admiration, but I _have_ found myself occasionally wondering what it would be like to… _be_ with him. But, I figured, Sherlock, being mostly brain-oriented, wouldn’t be interested in “that sort of thing”.

 

I was feeling pretty exposed at that point; the desire to run away and hide in my room was strong. Having your hidden weakness paraded before you by your closest friend/wannabe paramour is humiliating, yet I stayed seated. It seemed to be the safest course of action, the action of a soldier…

 

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Sherlock continued, softly. “We have all experienced it at some point in our lives. Being werefolk, we must come to grips with our atavistic nature, the part of us that is still wild, that still wants to run free and just _be_.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers together. His eyes—not gold, but his usual mercurial silver—were intense as they gazed into mine. “You were not born _were_ , so your learning curve will be steeper than mine was. I will help you, of course. You are my friend and I feel responsible for your condition.” He held up a hand to forestall my denial. “Whether you agree or not is moot. It was _my_ carelessness that caused the incident, and I apologize.”

 

This angered me. “ _Don’t_ ,” I admonished him. He gave me an almost-quizzical look as I continued. “This…this _thing_ that I’ve become, it’s a _gift_ , Sherlock! Do you know what happened today at work?”

He shook his head _no_. “Then let me tell you…” and I went on to relate how my newfound gifts had helped me to become a better doctor than I had any right to be. He listened intently, the tiniest smile quirking at his full lips, and I even detected a hint of pride in his eyes.

 

We were interrupted at one point by a call from Inspector Lestrade. It seems that the patient who had reeked of alcohol and sweetness was actually being poisoned by his wife for an insurance policy worth 50,000 pounds. She admitted it and they even found anti-freeze in the tea she had prepared for her husband’s dinner. Suffice to say, she was taken to lockup and her husband is going to file divorce papers immediately. Lestrade was both pleased by his discovery and amazed by my ability to cue him into it. He wanted more information, but I put him off, telling him I would come down to the station the next day to explain it to him.

 

Sherlock rose to his feet and applauded. “Excellent, John! You are already putting your skills to good use! I no longer feel quite so guilty…”

 

I felt such a surge of pride and affection for this man that I suddenly felt the uncontrollable urge to leap to my feet and embrace my lanky friend. As I threw my arms around him, my nose ended up in the crook of  his neck and I caught a whiff of the most _delectable_ smell, undiluted by the flowery stench in the room—warm, alluring, _obtainable_ Sherlock…

 

My tongue flicked out, dragged along his skin, tasting…

 

We jumped backwards simultaneously, our faces…well, I don’t know about _mine_ , but Sherlock looked surprised, aghast, and…physically _aroused_. I could _smell_ it on him; I also couldn’t miss the sudden bulge in his well-tailored trousers…

 

“I think we need more incense,” was all he said, before bolting into his room and slamming the door.

 

“Well, shit,” was all I could say in response. Well, that and “Down, you” to the front of my _own_ trousers.


	8. Hunter and Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's new abilities come into play under Sherlock's tutelage, and a new, deadly player enters the game.

Lestrade wasted _no_ time waiting for me to come to _him_. He came to 221B without invitation but with a _definite_ attitude.

 

“All right, spill it! _How did you know that man was being poisoned_?” he yelled.

 

“And a good evening to you, too, Inspector,” I replied, over my shoulder, not feeling inclined to get out of my comfy chair to meet him. “So glad you could get out to his house so quickly. I figured it _might_ be something like anti-freeze. It may have a bittering agent in it now, but _that_ can _also_ be hidden in a cup of bad tea.”

 

He froze, staring down at me while absently running one hand through his shock of silver hair. “Explain that.”

 

I shrugged. “Well, there was a spate of anti-freeze poisonings a couple of decades ago that required the addition of a…”

 

“NOT THAT, you son of a bitch! How did you know, without doing _any_ testing at all…”

 

“Oh, that. Well, I could… _smell_ it on him.”

 

Lestrade just stared in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

 

“I can assure you, I am not,” I said, more calmly than I felt.

 

“Then _how_ …” he cut himself off as he glanced at Sherlock’s door and then back at me. “Wait a minute. You _smelled_ it on him…like Sherlock can…When that werewolf attacked you in the alley…”

 

I nodded. “Bravo, Inspector. Well done,” I applauded him, mimicking Sherlock.

 

He scratched his head again. “You mean…you didn’t…you _couldn’t_ …”

 

“He could, Inspector, and he did,” Sherlock replied as he strolled calmly out of his room. He stopped beside my chair and spared me a concerned yet veiled look. “John has recovered fully from his injuries and has, unfortunately…”

 

“Nothing unfortunate about it, Sherlock,” I denied vigorously. “This…this is…”

 

“A gift. Yes, you’ve said that before, but, I can assure you, it _does_ have its down side…”

 

Lestrade exploded. “ _Will one of you tell me what is going on here_?” He pointed to me and demanded, “Is he a werecat, too, now?”

 

“No,” we both said in unison.

 

“Well, thank God,” Lestrade started.

 

“I’m actually a were _hound_ , to be precise,” I clarified, in the most matter-of-fact voice of which I am capable.

 

Nonetheless, I thought Lestrade was about to piss himself.

 

“So, _you’re_ a werecat,” he said, pointed at Sherlock, who nodded mutely. He then pointed at me and continued, “and _you’re_ a werehound…”

 

I put up my hands in surrender and said, “That’s me.”

 

He stopped, shifted his stare between Sherlock and me a couple of times, and muttered, “Cats and dogs, living together…Shit. Now I’ve got _two_ of you to worry about.”

 

“Nonsense! You never worried about us _before_ , when you _thought_ we were _merely_ human,” Sherlock said disparagingly.

 

“Oh, the _hell_ I didn’t,” Lestrade snapped back. “You were reckless enough _already_ ; finding out you were a werecat was just icing on the cake. And now, your partner-in-crime over here…” He jerked his thumb at me.

 

“Is _still_ not as crazy as my flatmate is,” I pointed out. “Cats are more erratic in their behavior than dogs.”

 

_That_ earned me a poisonous look from Sherlock, as his lips flat-lined in silent irritation.

 

“So, you _smelled_ …” Lestrade stated.

 

“Sweet and alcohol on his breath and from his pores. Since he wasn’t inebriated, it wasn’t alcohol poisoning or drunkenness, and there _were_ the other symptoms, so I suspected something more nefarious,” I continued, as nonchalantly as possible, despite the fact I was thrilled with my new abilities.

 

He rubbed the back of his head. “Damn. Maybe we won’t need that tracking dog after all…”

 

Sherlock splurted laughter before containing himself. I gave him the side-eye.

 

“I’m still _new_ to all this, Inspector, so don’t mistake me for a trained tracking hound. I can’t discern between personal scents that well, just generalized stuff right at the moment. Sherlock is actually _far_ more adept at that, seeing as he was _born_ to it,” I pointed out.

 

“And I’m not your tracking cat, either, Inspector,” Sherlock continued, his tone as dry and chilly as tundra. “It is a _specialized_ skill. Not _everyone_ is a tracker.”

 

Lestrade held up his hand. “All right, all right, don’t get your tail in a knot,” he said, facetiously. “It was just a thought…” His mobile went off. “Hold on a sec…” he withdrew the device and said, “Yes, what is it?” There was a barrage of words from the speaker. With each one, Lestrade’s face grew longer and more concerned. “All right, we’ll be right over. Secure the scene.” He thumbed his mobile off and looked up at Sherlock and me.

 

“What now?” Sherlock monotoned. He still hadn’t recovered from being called a tracking dog.

 

“Another attack, only, this time, the victim survived. He’s mutilated, but alive in hospital. Says he knows you.”

 

My ears pricked up, figuratively speaking, as did Sherlock’s. We traded glances and said, in unison, “Let’s go.”

 

After grabbing our respective coats, we were out the door and on our way to the crime scene in the back of a panda car. Sherlock looked uncomfortable; he _hated_ driving in pandas, always preferring to arrive in his own manner. Typical cat. I settled in as Lestrade told the driver where to go. In deference to us, he specified no siren, for which I was grateful.

 

The trip was short. Maybe the victim had been lurking around Baker Street, or maybe he just lived nearby, but, either way, we found the site in a back alley (not surprising) off of a side street. That seemed to let out ‘crime de passion’, indicating, instead, that the victim had been stalked and ambushed. As we exited the car, my senses came alive at all the scents I had never noticed before. The trash and excrement were not unusual, but the tang of blood and the various and sundry personalized odors of the techs and officers made for a heady combination. Someone had had a heavily-garlicked dish shortly before coming to work, making my stomach heave a bit. _Now_ I could understand the whole garlic-to-ward-off-evil thing; it made anyone with hyper-senses nauseous enough to hurl. I tapped Lestrade on the shoulder and asked him to remove the offending officer to the periphery, which he did, but not without a raised eyebrow at me.

 

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. “Thank you, John. You just saved me from doing that.”

 

I nodded. “No problem. I now see what you mean about a ‘down side’ to these abilities.”

 

He nodded in return as we approached the crime scene. The smell of fresh blood was exhilarating; it made me want to run and hunt like a wild beast. I tamped down the urge and moved in closer. I could see a crime tech holding something in a gloved hand before depositing it into a clear evidence bag. I stuck out my hand mutely and, after a look at Lestrade, who nodded, handed me the bag for examination. As I looked inside, I’m not sure what I was expecting to see. A hand, perhaps, or fingers where the perpetrator had tried to remove jewelry. Instead, what I saw took me aback and made Sherlock hiss under his breath.

 

It was an ear. And, no, not a human one.

 

Lestrade leaned in. “Is _that_ what I think it is?” he asked, in wonder.

 

I nodded. “Yep, that’s a _pinna_ , an animal ear. Damned big animal…”

 

“Average adult werefolk,” Sherlock chimed in. “God, I hope it isn’t one of the Network. Their lives are difficult enough…” He reached in and opened the ziplock bag before Lestrade could protest about chain of possession or tampering with evidence. One good sniff and he proclaimed, “This was our stalker, John. Smell it.”

 

I took a whiff and memories flooded back, so violent that Lestrade and Sherlock had to grab me to keep me from falling backward onto my arse. “Yeah, that’s him, all right.”

 

“Sorry, John. I didn’t realize you would react so violently…” Sherlock started to say.

 

I waved my hand. “No, it’s okay. I just…wasn’t prepared, that’s all.” I closed up the bag and handed it back to the tech, who wandered back to the evidence van with it.”

 

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “ _Someone_ thought he was dead and was trying to take his trophy. I’ll wager our perpetrator was marked quite seriously by the victim when he awoke.”

 

I agreed. Turning to Lestrade, I said, “Where is he now? St. Barts?”

 

“Yeah, intensive care. He’s stable, which is why we’re here instead of there. Pretty beat up, though, and with a gunshot wound you could put your fist into. You werefolk are pretty tough…” Lestrade observed.

 

“One of the ‘up sides’ of our condition,” Sherlock replied absently. “I think we should go talk to him and get the full story. I do hope you placed a guard at his room.”

 

Lestrade looked annoyed. “Of course, I did. _I’m_ no rookie, not like this guy, here,” he jibed, jerking a thumb at me.

 

“Only at being a werehound, not for anything else,” I retorted, good-naturedly.

 

We piled back into the panda and sped off for St. Barts. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long trip. Think about driving with an antsy cat in the car. The smell of blood and the sight of that ear had revved Sherlock up a bit.

 

Once inside St. Barts, we bee-lined for the intensive unit. There, we found one unconscious nurse, one badly-beaten cop, and one dead patient, his throat slit and his other pinna missing, as demonstrated by the _new_ gaping wound in his scalp. The rest of the personnel had been locked into an equipment room at gunpoint. They all told the same story; a man walked into the unit, pulled a precision hunting rifle from under his long coat, knocked out the cop with the butt of it, punched out a nurse, and corralled the skeleton staff into the small room, locking them in. Then, he entered the unconscious patient’s room, slit his throat, and carved off the remaining pinna, which he pocketed. It was an insane act for someone who always seemed to prefer to hunt in secret.

 

Strangely enough, he didn’t wear a mask. It probably wouldn’t have done him any good anyway. He sported a huge, healed gash across his face and left eye socket, barely sparing his eye. The scar had left him with a permanent sneer on that side of his face. He also had some _new_ claw marks on his neck, dangerously close to his jugular. He was a tall man, with faded brown hair and a waxed, Victorian-style moustache. No one who saw him could forget him, they all said.

 

“Brazen,” Sherlock commented, his eyes sparkling. “A true hunter, though, not a wise one, in this case. He seems to forget that he is hunting in an _urban_ environment, not on the veldt. I’m sure he felt that his appearance was distinctive enough that he couldn’t conceal it anyway, so he didn’t bother. He’ll probably try to escape the city, now that he has his prey, and return to someplace as lawless as himself.”

 

“The adrenaline rush of the hunt might have made him careless, as well,” I noted. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

 

“Shit, look at this mess,” Lestrade moaned. There was a spray of blood across the ceiling and wall around the bed. Despite what many people think from the telly and film, slitting someone’s throat is a messy, disgusting business. There was blood _everywhere_ , probably even on the perp…

 

“John!” Sherlock cried out, turning toward me with intensity. He pointed back at the body. “Smell! Seek!”

 

I was appalled. “Sherlock, what…? I’m not a _dog_ …”

 

“No, you’re a werehound. _Smell the blood and follow it_ , John! Your nose is several times more sensitive than mine! You can do what I can’t! DO IT!” He grabbed me and thrust me toward the body, practically pitching me into the bed with it.

 

I flailed to keep my balance. “STOP THAT! All right, all right, I’ll take a whiff,” I snarled, begrudgingly. I few sniffs and I began to recognize certain…qualities I couldn’t _qualify_ but could _quantify_. Sherlock stood behind me in anticipation, so close I had to order him away because all I could smell was cinnamon… _There_. Got it! A distinctive quality to his blood as opposed to anyone else’s scent in the room. I turned and, initially, followed the blood drops out of the room until they petered out. After that, I stood outside St. Barts and inhaled. The scent was almost _palpable_ , a like a trail of thick smoke you could follow. I raced down the street with Sherlock in hot pursuit and Lestrade calling for backup. Right at this corner, left at that one---the scent started to lose some vibrancy but was still there, thick and cloying in my nostrils, until it dead-ended at a set of peel-out tire tracks in an alley. There, it stopped.

 

“Damn,” I swore. “Bastard had a car waiting.”

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “John, can you smell anything else?”

 

I looked at him. “Like what?”

 

“Another scent. Sample for it. One that starts here,” he said, pointing downward.

 

I stood beside him and inhaled. Yes, another scent; human, male, middle-aged, angry.

 

“Angry? How could you know that?” Lestrade inquired.

 

“You can smell the biological changes on someone caused by extreme emotion,” I explained, not quite understanding it myself. All I knew was, it _smelled_ angry.

 

“Can you follow it?” Sherlock asked, his excitement ramping up his own scent.

 

I nodded. “Yes, as long as he doesn’t get into anywhere that his scent gets lost in others.”

 

He grinned. “Good man. In the meanwhile, I’ll search in my own fashion.” He started to remove his expensive shoes and socks.

 

“Where the hell are _you_ going?” Lestrade asked.

 

In response, Sherlock shrugged and assumed an expression I can only describe as _concentration_. As we watched, his whole body, starting with his face, writhed and morphed--‘downshifted’, as Sherlock himself would describe it, into his werecat form.

 

“I’ll be damned,” Lestrade swore.

 

“Unlikely, unless you run into a werewolf _yourself_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock retorted drily. He looked upwards as if evaluating the walls, then, with a prodigious spring, leapt upward and sank his fully-extended claws into the brick side of one building, hanging there like the giant cat that he was. “You follow your nose, John, while I take in the overview from the rooftops. Oh, and, by the way,” he said as he looked down his feline nose at us, “Would you mind taking my shoes with you? I’d hate to lose yet _another_ pair.”

 

I stooped down to pick them up and got a good whiff of Sherlock from them. It made me shudder as I felt my senses suddenly enhance exponentially. “Sherlock…”

 

“Don’t smell them, John. They’ll throw you off the scent.”

 

“Too late. My senses just went into overdrive.”

 

He rolled his eyes at me as he hung there. “That is an indicator that you are close to changing into your _were_ form. Focus, John! Control yourself. You have a prodigious will; use it!” He turned and clambered up the side of the building with little seeming effort, finding claw-holds no experienced climber could ever use. Then, with a flex of feline muscle, he flipped himself onto the rooftop and disappeared.

 

“Bloody showoff,” I mumbled.

 

“ _I heard that_ ,” came a faint voice from above.

 

Handing Sherlock’s shoes to Lestrade, I took in a new breath of the driver’s scent. He was driving with the window open, obviously, leaving a waft of aftershave, wool, musty animals, and gunpowder, primarily, with a certain tang of something else. Perhaps the blood scent was mixed in with it. I had to trot to keep up with the undulating scent trail as it was buffeted by the breezes from passing vehicles and people. I almost lost it once or twice due to some exceptionally bad body odor from some passers-by, causing me to gag and spit the scent out of my mouth, but I managed to find it again.

 

After a few blocks, I turned down another alley and stopped dead. There, on the ground in front of me, was our gunman. He was lying there, a broken and bleeding heap, after having been mowed down by a moving vehicle. There were even signs that the vehicle might have backed up over him and run him into the asphalt _again_ before speeding off to the end of the alley and turning down a main thoroughfare.

 

Lestrade caught up with me after a minute or two, having paused to call in to the station. He stood next to me and looked down at the mangled body in the roadway and said, “Shit. What a mess.”

 

I nodded. _This_ was pre-meditated, cold and calculated murder. “I’ll wager the driver did him in,” I said, dropping to my haunches to get a closer look. “Too much damage for just one pass. The driver wanted to make _sure_ he was dead.” I looked around. “Do you see a gun, Lestrade?”

 

Lestrade pivoted a complete 360 degrees, taking in the entire alleyway. “Nope, no gun. According to the witnesses, it’s not something one would miss. Big-ass gun.”

 

My nose picked up something else, too. Reaching over carefully, I pulled at the pockets in the long coat the body was wearing. Nothing. “Greg, witnesses said the victim suffered a new head wound in hospital when the gunman slit his throat. Do you think it’s possible the victim did a panic change when he saw the gunman coming and the gunman cut off his ear to complete his ‘trophy’ collection?”

 

“Jesus,” Lestrade whispered. “That could explain why the gunman followed him to hospital—to complete his hunt and take his trophy.” He scratched his head. “What a bell-end!”

 

“Yeah,” I nodded in agreement. “Crazy bastard, too. Not bothering to disguise himself at all, killing someone in intensive unit and slicing him up---surprised he didn’t go for the tail, as well.” I took out my mobile and texted Sherlock.

 

            John: Found gunman dead by MVA. No ear on body. No trace of car here. You?

 

A minute later, I received a reply.

 

            Sherlock: Saw car come out of alley. Tried to follow but unable to keep up. On my way back.

 

I breathed a sigh of relief. I always felt better when Sherlock was within eyeball range. On his own, he could be reckless, losing awareness of everything around him except for the hunt.

 

“Hey, John, you might want to pull that tail back in,” Lestrade said, casually.

 

I jerked in surprise. “What…where?” I asked, trying to look around at my own bum.

 

He laughed. “Gotcha.”

 

“Dickhead,” I muttered, darkly. “You wouldn’t laugh if you knew just how fast a _were_ can change. It’s frightening.”

 

Still chuckling to himself, Lestrade murmured, “Sorry, but it was too good to pass up.”

 

“Caught you by the tail, did he?” Sherlock joked as he jumped down from some point above our heads.

 

Lestrade started. “Jesus, don’t do that!”

 

“ _Now_ who can’t take it?” I sassed, then nodded at my flatmate. “Good to have you back, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock smiled at me in obvious pleasure before turning to the body before us. “Yes, I saw the body from the rooftop. Nasty business. Tire tracks are more obvious from there. The driver must have convinced the gunman to exit the car, then ran him down several times before leaving. _Someone_ wasn’t very happy with him, probably because he became too high-profile with that last hunt.”

 

Lestrade called for backup, then knelt down to rifle through the man’s coat. “No ID, no wallet. Probably not theft, just an attempt to obscure his identity.”

 

“With a face like that, I’m sure he’ll be easy to identify,” Sherlock remarked, looking down at the cracked skull and broken bones clad in bleeding flesh. A trickle of blood was visible coming from beneath the body and running down a trough in the alleyway. “Big game hunter, judging from the description of the gun and the smells on the corpse’s clothes. This coat has seen a few hunts already and hasn’t been cleaned. I’m sure Molly will be able to get more information from the body back at St. Barts.

 

Faint sirens wailed closer as London’s Finest converged on the scene. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock in obvious concern, but all he saw was a tall, dark-haired man in a long Belstaff coat. Sherlock had shifted into human form shortly after joining us. Sherlock noticed this and smiled. “My shoes, if you will, Inspector.”

 

As my flatmate donned his Oxfords, I noticed that, as I calmed down, my senses diminished significantly, even though they were still quite enhanced. I could smell that Sherlock was also much calmer and that Lestrade had had fish and chips recently, perhaps leftovers as a cold breakfast; the vinegar and salt were still quite apparent, and the fish was making my stomach growl. I apologized for its surly rumble and Lestrade chuckled.

 

“Why don’t the two of you nip off and get something to eat before the techs arrive, eh? Don’t want you to start knawing on someone…” he snickered at his own joke as the cars pulled in. “Over here, boys. Need the body taken to St. Barts, collect anything that looks suspicious.” He turned back to us. “Go on, scoot! I’ll keep you informed.” With that, he walked toward the approaching police personnel.

 

“Hmmph,” was all Sherlock said.

 

“Yeah,” I groused. “Just dismiss us like _that_.” I snapped my fingers. “‘Take the bloodhound home, boys, we’re done with him. Cheeky bastard.”

 

“But he _did_ have a marvelous idea, John. You must be famished.”

 

I looked over at him and nodded. “I _am_ , but _you_ must be, too.”

 

He wrinkled his nose in _that way_ ; it was fucking adorable.

 

_Shit. ‘Fucking adorable.’ Where the fuck did **that** come from?_ Sherlock’s presence was beginning to play with my head. I passed it off as fatigue.

 

“You know I don’t eat during a case, John, but I also know that _you_ need to. Let’s get some fish and chips for _you_ ; Lestrade’s second-hand breakfast was beginning to turn my stomach, anyway.” He grabbed my arm and gently guided me away from the body. “We’ll check in with Molly later.”


	9. Drunk and Dismayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse in both the case and John and Sherlock's relationship.

We walked in companionable silence back to Baker St and the local chips place. I knew Sherlock was mulling over all we had learned and experienced so far that day, so I didn’t intrude upon that.  When we got to the chips joint, the proprietor gave me extra portions to take home with me. Sherlock smiled, recalling the day he had first entered the establishment, only to be nearly conked unconscious by a falling shelf. He had helped the shopkeeper to re-hang the shelf, thereby earning his eternal gratitude for not suing him. Thereafter, he always got extra portions.

 

As we sat, I ate and Sherlock talked, expounding upon the evidence and testing various theories out on me. As for myself, I was absolutely famished, as Sherlock had surmised. The fish and chips seemed _so_ much more flavorful and aromatic than usual, and a far cry from Lestrade’s breath.  Occasionally, Sherlock would reach over and snag a chip or two, popping it absent-mindedly into his mouth. He never _used_ to do that on a case, but I guess I’ve been a good—or bad—influence on him. I’m sure his brother is unsure, _even now_ , which one it is.

 

“We have to wait for the fingerprints,” Sherlock continued, taking another bite of a piece of fish he had daintily snatched from my basket. “That will surely give us the identity of our gunman, leaving only his killer on the prowl. Hopefully, it is only the two of them; if not, then we may have an even _bigger_ problem on our hands.”

 

“Mmm,” I agreed, my mouth full of fish. I swallowed and said, “Imagine if it is a _brotherhood_ , of sorts, that is doing it. ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ by Kipling comes to mind.”

 

“Yes,” he drawled, thoughtfully. “A madman who is also a famed hunter decides to hunt the ultimate prey—a human. I _do_ recall that.” Another nibble. “How many hunting clubs are there in London, I wonder? Perhaps we should look into it from _that_ perspective.” He pointed a crispy bit of fish and me. “You could infiltrate them, perhaps masquerading as a hunter interested in joining. Look around, see what you could find.”

 

“It would be foolhardy of them to display such ‘trophies’ in the public rooms,” I observed. “That might require a little bit more digging.”

 

“Agreed,” he said, as he munched on a chip. “These are especially good today.”

 

“Yeah, nothing like a little adventure to whet your appetite,” I smiled at him.

 

He looked displeased. “You are causing me to develop bad habits, John. I would never, before, have eaten while on a hunt,” he said, sternly.

 

I shrugged. No point in denying it. “Maybe, but your brain works better if you feed it occasionally. Besides, there’s nothing to do but wait right now, so you may as well fuel up.”

 

He looked dubious but began to chow down with purpose after that. All from my basket, of course. He almost always eats from _my_ plate rather than his own. I’ve just learned to order something we’ll _both_ like on _both_ plates so I can fish off his, as well. It works, but it _does_ garner some strange looks from the other diners.

 

A muted buzz from his pocket distracted Sherlock. He popped the last bite of fish in his mouth, then fished around in his pocket for his mobile. A quick consultation with his phone resulted in a broad smile. “We have an identity, John! August Hargreaves, born 1960, spent formative years in and out of various British boarding schools due to behavioral problems, joined the military upon graduation, attained the rank of lieutenant colonel before being drummed out in disgrace for shooting his superior officer in the field and claiming it was a mistake—it wasn’t, no news there. Ultimately, he returned to civilian life and his well-to-do family. He has since spent time abroad indulging himself with big game hunts and squandering the family fortune.” He pocketed his phone. “Good for Lestrade! He really moved things along for us!”

 

I dabbed at my mouth before speaking. “So, the family reprobate, eh? How does that help us now that he’s dead?”

 

“Well, John, Lestrade also discovered that Mr. Hargreaves was _also_ a member in good standing of the Chamberlain Hunt Club, not too far from here. Old, established club; our killer was probably a legacy member. No nouveau riche at the Chamberlain!” He chuckled to himself.

 

I snorted in derision. “Sounds like Scotland Yard knows him pretty well.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed, John. He has quite the history with them. Troublemaker to the nth degree.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in quiet glee. “Well, then, shall we see if we can track down his killer? We can start at the Chamberlain…”

 

I held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Wouldn’t that be like walking into the lion’s den, Sherlock?”

 

He grinned wolfishly. “More like the hunter’s lair, John. And, in _this_ case, predator can’t be distinguished from prey. As long as no one knows we are _were_ , we have the advantage.”

 

I downed the last of my tea in one gulp. “Ready when you are, Sherlock!”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“We need to get inside,” Sherlock murmured. “Low-key approach.”

 

“Hmm. I may have an idea,” I said. He looked down at me and one eyebrow rose in silent commentary. “Stay here.”

 

“Yes, Captain,” he murmured in return. I smirked at his tone; he _almost_ sounded impressed.

 

I staggered across the street to the ornate portal of the Chamberlain Hunt Club and banged on the door. After a few good hits, it swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with a saturnine face and the uniform of an Indian footman from the Victorian era, when India was one of Great Britain’s possessions. It was all a bit over-the-top by my standards, but impressive to the peons.

 

“Yes, sir. What do you want?” he asked in a sonorous voice. His moustache drooped below his chin and made him look like a skinny walrus. I burst out laughing, then disguised it with a drunken plea to use the loo.

 

“I’m afraid not, sir. Members only. I’m sure you can find a pub more to your liking,” he said, barely restraining himself from sneering at my condition. I mugged at him a bit, then waggled my finger at him in admonishment.

 

“That’s not very friendly of you, my good man. If I can’t use your loo, I guess I’ll have to find someplace else to go.” I spun around and spied a potted plant on the portico. “Ah, just the thing!” I howled with glee as I tottered over to it and started to unzip my pants.

 

“No, no, no, _no_!” the footman yelled as he grabbed my arm and propelled me through the ornate iron-grated doors of the club. “You may use the guest toilet on the first floor, but, then, I want you _out_ of here, do you hear me?” He propelled me toward a small toilet room off one of the heavily-decorated and cluttered parlors. I waved to him with a big grin on my face and closed the door behind me.

 

Once there, I did, actually, make use of the facilities, but not for long. I made some rather unusual and, frankly, disturbing, sounds while I was in there and watched, through a crack in the door jamb, as the footman screwed up his face in disgust and wandered into another room.  As soon as he left, I tiptoed out and took a few pictures of the rooms nearby with my phone, to share with Sherlock later. I also took a few deep breaths of the ambient smells in the club. My sinuses burned with old cigar smoke and the scent of long-dead animals with musty fur. However, my biggest surprise was that I detected a hint, the barest trace, of _were_ scent.

 

I insinuated myself through a back door into short corridor with a heavy, carved door at the end. I rattled the knob; it was locked. I wished, not for the first time, that Sherlock was behind me with his lockpick skills. Instead, what I got was the footman, glowering down at me. I grinned up to him and slurred, “I seem to have lost my way, good man. Whereforth is the front door?” I gestured with grandiosity and total facetiousness. He grabbed my arm with force and half-dragged me down the main corridor, where I almost collided with a man of middling height with a chisel-sharp face and intense gaze, who stared at me dismissively. I took a quick sniff as he strode by and was struck by his scent.

 

“Now, get out and don’t come around here again!” the footman growled. I mock-saluted him and said, “Ta, guv!” before I stumbled off down the street. As I did so, I had a keen eye out for my flatmate who, amazingly, materialized directly in my path as I rounded the corner.

 

“John, don’t _ever_ do that to me again,” he admonished me severely, yet there was a twinkle in his eye as he said it, as if amused I had _actually_ perpetrated such a fraud successfully. I grabbed him by the coat sleeve and dragged him down the side street and into an alley behind the club. “ _I_ am supposed to be the reckless one, _not_ _you_.”

 

“Actually, _neither_ one of us is supposed to be ‘the reckless one’, according to Lestrade, remember?” I teased him. He smiled.

 

“How did it go?” he asked, all attention. He hunched down slightly to hear me better and his eyes glittered in anticipation. “Did you find anything of interest?”

 

“Absolutely,” I replied. “I took some photos and a few whiffs of the place, and…”

 

A shot rang out and Sherlock spun around, hand to his upper arm, cursing. I looked down the alley in time to see a man duck back into the rear entrance of the club with what looked like a long rifle. I grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pushed him out of the alley.

 

“Run, Sherlock!” I yelled as I watched him stagger away. I then dove back down the alley and sprinted to the back door into which the man had just disappeared. I sniffed. Same scent as the driver. Same man who killed August Hargreaves just tried to kill Sherlock.

 

_“John! Get your sorry arse back here or…”_

 

“Coming!” I hollered just as another shot whizzed past and splattered against the brick wall behind me, leaving a deep divot. My blood pressure soared and I ran faster than I believe I’ve ever run in my life. I virtually _leapt_ around the corner and nearly rammed into Sherlock, who was teetering on his feet but still moving in my direction. “Go, now!” I yelled in his face, loud enough to pierce the pain-fog in his eyes. I grabbed his coat at the back belt and propelled him forward with me.

 

“John, I…” he said before stumbling out of the side street onto the main and falling to his knees. I yanked him up again and drove him forward, calling a cab at the same time. One stopped almost immediately, allowing me to push Sherlock inside and tumble in after him. After giving the cabbie directions to the flat, I checked on Sherlock. He was flagging, his head drooping. I patted his face a few times and called his name. When I noticed the cabbie watching me suspiciously, I quipped, “Some bird tried to drug him in the pub. Can you imagine that?” The cabbie shook his head and said, “You’re a good friend, lad” as he drove on.

 

When we arrived at 221B, I paid the cabbie—leaving a hefty tip—and hauled Sherlock out of the cab and in through the front door. He was barely conscious due to shock. I feared that he might have lost too much blood already, so I wasted no time in getting him up the stairs and into the flat’s single bathroom. There, he collapsed onto the toilet while I wrestled him out of his coat and ripped off his shirt. It was a testament to his state of consciousness that he said nothing about that. I examined the wound; one entrance, no exit, so the bullet _must_ still be inside. Making sure Sherlock was propped up safely, I ran to fetch my medical bag. As I came back into the loo, he slumped down off the toilet and fell halfway into the bathtub before bonelessly spilling onto the floor.

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!” I yelled into his ear and was rewarded by a groggy “huh?” He turned his face toward mine and said, “John. Y’re all right. Tha’s good…” before leaning his head back against the tub, closing his eyes, and fading out. Looking back, _that_ was a blessing; it kept me from having to anesthetize him when I removed the bullet. Quickly cleaning my forceps, I threaded the tips into the wound and managed to snag the projectile on the first try. Sherlock didn’t even respond. His adrenaline had obviously drained away, leaving him pliable and unresponsive. As he slept, I stitched up his arm and bandaged it expertly. I thought about licking it, as Sherlock had done to _me_ , but I wasn’t sure if I had the same healing factor in my saliva that _he_ had.

 

My own adrenaline was fading fast, so I doubted I would be able to move him onto his bed. Instead, I procured a pillow and a blanket to wrap around him on the bathroom floor. Then I staggered to my feet and was surprised, when I looked into the mirror, to see a trickle of blood running down the side of my face. A chip of brick must have hit me when the bullet rebounded off the wall, dangerously close to my eye. I hadn’t even felt it. I cleaned up and staggered over to the tub, where I made a makeshift bed for myself with another pillow and blanket. That way, I could keep watch over Sherlock while getting a bit of rest myself.

 

I must have dozed off because, when I opened my eyes, my gaze met a set of quicksilver eyes which were regarding me over the lip of the tub. Sherlock was awake and watching me sleep.

 

“How you feeling?” I mumbled, still a bit muddled.

 

“Hurting, but alive, thanks to you,” he replied, his voice tight with pain. He dragged himself a bit more upright and hung  over the tub edge by his armpits, wincing a bit at the effort. “You? I can see you were bleeding…”

 

“Fine,” I cut him off. “Just a chip of stone, nothing more. I’m more concerned about _you_.”

 

He brushed me off. “Don’t be. I’ll recover. Healing factor, remember?” He smiled weakly.

 

I shifted in the tub, throwing off the blanket. “Let me help you get into bed. You need to rest, to recover…”

 

“I need to work,” he replied, without heat, getting his knees under him and rising to his feet. He leaned over the edge and offered me his good arm to help me out of the tub. I waved him off and clambered out by myself. He quirked a smile. ”We’re a couple of stubborn gits, aren’t we?” he chuckled. “Never admit weakness, never acknowledge defeat.”

 

“Speak for yourself, mate,” I said, stumbling over the word slightly. It just didn’t _sound_ right, being applied to Sherlock. He was _so_ much more than a mere ‘mate’…I shook my head to clear it, then followed him out into the kitchen. He wandered on into the parlor while I put the kettle on for tea. I was knackered beyond belief; maybe some tea would help.

 

“Oww!” I heard him yell. I sprinted into the room to find Sherlock trying to lift his laptop with his bad arm. There was a new show of blood on the bandage and a trickle of bright red coursing down his bicep.

 

“Idiot!” I swore at him. “Let me look at that…” I ripped the bandage off and the smell of fresh blood hit me in the full in the face, staggering me. Without the adrenaline surge to blunt the smell and focus my attention on a specific threat, I _reacted_. I grabbed his laptop and threw it onto his chair, despite his protest, and began lapping the blood off his skin.

 

“John, no…” Sherlock said, trying to push me away feebly. He was equally as knackered as I, as well as being befuddled by pain and shock. I pushed in closer, nipping at his naked shoulder, dragging him down to the floor by sheer weight and force of will. He sank down and I _swarmed_ him. I could feel my body shifting, writhing , morphing into something _else_. In truth, I didn’t _want_ to stop. I _reveled_ in it; the enhanced senses, the increased strength, the aggression, the _lust_ …I licked and nipped at his neck, my hands grasping at his hair, pulling back to expose that pale, graceful throat.

 

“No…John…please…” he begged, feeling his own change starting. Ears shifted, face melted and flowed, his desire growing with each passing second, enveloping him, compromising his fantastic intellect. He squirmed beneath me, as much in pleasure as in resistance, as I ran my hands over his naked chest and downward, snaking one beneath his belt to fondle and caress the turgid flesh it found there…

 

“JOHN, NO! PLEASE! _Not like this_ …not…like… _this_ …” he moaned as he pushed at me, his words at odds to his very evident _need_.  He grabbed my hair, pulling my head up, so that he could meet my eyes with his. They were hot, molten gold, but there was something _else_ there, as well; something…

 

I stopped. Just… _stopped_. The look on his face was something akin to fear, yet I knew Sherlock to be fearless, so this was not just _any_ old fear; it was something _so specific_ it defined immediate qualification.

 

“Sherlock,” I whispered, unable to look away.

 

“Please, John. Not like this,” he whispered, his eyes pleading.

 

I shook my head in incomprehension. “Like what?” I asked, wonderingly.

 

His eyes changed to silver as they gazed up into mine. Finally, I understood…

 

“Like animals,” he said, brokenly.

 

I felt myself go limp, or, at least, it _seemed_ that way. Everything drained out of me all at once, leaving only regret behind.

 

I pushed back off of him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Sherlock…” I reached down to help him up, but he just lay there, the embodiment of sadness and pain, his eyes suddenly downcast.

 

“I told you there were downsides to this… _condition_ , John,” he said, without looking up. “This is one of them, allowing our atavistic nature to consume us and rob us of our humanity. It’s not the first time this has happened to me…”

 

“Jesus, I’m…”

 

“Sorry. Yes, you said that, and I believe you. I just…It isn’t that I don’t _want_ to, John, just…as a _man_ , not…”

 

“An animal. Sure.” I nodded, in final comprehension. He nodded absently and reached up to take my hand, still not meeting my eyes as I lifted him to his feet. Then I looked up into that beautifully tragic face and said, “If it’s any comfort at all, I…I wanted to do it because it’s _you_ , not just..”

 

He barely cracked a smile. “What, ‘Three-Continents Watson’, the Don Juan of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, wanted to have sex with a male werecat? A far reach, John. I think I prefer to chalk it up to _blood_ lust rather than to any _other_ kind.” He walked past me and into his room, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

I just stood there, unmoving, _hating_ myself; hating my loss of control, hating being a _were_ , and just…wishing I could take it all back, undo it, go back to where we were before. When things were _right_ between us. When I could hide what I felt behind indifference or jokes.

 

Now, it’s all changed, and the genie won’t be going back into that bottle any time soon.


End file.
